


with a side of soba

by selfetish



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (aka ash writing poetic mush about the object of his affection), 1980s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Boys Being Boys, Coming of Age, Diary/Journal, Drunken Kissing, Homoeroticism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pole Vaulter Eiji, Slow Burn, Stream of Consciousness, Teen Angst, Underage Drinking, Writer Ash, pop culture references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfetish/pseuds/selfetish
Summary: "What the hell are you doing?" Ash's fight-or-flight mechanisms switch on. He sees his heart running laps around the track. It’s suddenly hard to breathe and it feels like something’s obstructing his air passage.  He tells himself it's probably pollen or the sun beating down on him. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Just drink some water and cough it out."Photosynthesizing."But Ash is smart. He knows better. And with that stupid response that manifested all of the idiotic energy on campus, he knows this sweaty, innocuous boy laying down by the turf with his farmer's tan on full display is the root of all his suffering. Damn him to Hell.With his booming essay business thwarted by an egregious punishment, Ash Callenreese finds himself in charge of the college paper's sports column following the school's biggest athletic star.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Comments: 105
Kudos: 181





	1. a slain lynx

**Author's Note:**

> A culmination of my college fears and a warm welcome to adulthood. I hope you enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight he can't remember. (And do they seriously think he's dealing drugs?)

Ash considers himself a self-made businessman at only eighteen years of age. Call it presumptuous, but his business had become a household name around campus. “Lynx," a codeword of sorts to subvert faculty and snitchass nerds with sticks up their ass, you know, so students can make deadlines and partake in those infamous nights college is known for. He capitalized greatly off of this, taking advantage of both the anxiety of final grades and the stupidity of those with no concept of a thesis, body, and conclusion.

Maybe it runs in the family, in his blood, but it just came to him so _easily_ — processing and writing and mimicking styles. Griff took all of the creative juices while Ash drank all of the intellectual soda as he found himself excelling in various fields. It’s kind of formulaic, he thinks: take information from over there and match it up to a bullet point here and give it some spice, some flavor. There’s varying degrees to what makes a complete and thorough paper, and Ash had mastered all of them: The bare minimum C that meets all of the requirements (at a rate of twenty dollars per page), the spruced up B (thirty), and the-whole-shabang A (fifty). And boy, was he rolling in the dough. Just last month, he finally saved up for that acoustic Gibson guitar he’d always wanted from just a couple of papers. He can only _imagine_ what else he could get if he continues this trade later down the road. Records, stereos, concert tickets… The possibilities are endless.

Anyways, “popular freshman” is an oxymoron, but Ash considers himself as such. He's aware of his savior-like abilities to the intellectually deficient and his pretty face that augmented him up the social hierarchy and granted him access to the best kinds of teenage debauchery.

Thursdays like today are for drop-off, usually disguised through some crazed party. If there was anything he learned these past three terms, it was that education is useless, Socrates can suck his dick, and freshman dorms are absolute dogshit. They were big enough to fit a body and a mouse or two, and had this dank, musty smell that wouldn't go away as hard as you tried to mask it. The upperclassman ones are not much better, with only slight upgrades to the latter and suites if lucky. The best parties are almost always off-campus as you can smoke all of the stogies and drink all of the booze you want.

Tonight, it’s Wookie’s— a senior and a previous client of his that he had so gracefully saved from the pits of academic genocide.

“Ash, man! You made it!” he greets, dapping him up and pulling him into the house. “Yo! Ash is here!” Everybody from every corner raises their beer cans, yelling ''heys” and "hi’s” over the blaring rap music that played from blown speakers.

“Geez. You’re embarrassing me,” Ash smirks, shrugging his Jansport off into his hand so he wouldn’t look so _lame._

“Somebody get our guest of the night some beer!” _Guest of the night._ Pfft. People just _loved_ eating his ass, huh? A bunch of idiot wannabes with ulterior motives. They don't actually care about him. But he plays along, not trying to ruin his chances of getting more cash.

As he enters the living room, it’s like Moses parting the Red Sea. The crowd of sophomores, juniors and seniors alike step aside for him like he’s some celebrity as he searches anywhere to sit his ass down. 

There's a real lack of feng shui around here. Sparse furnishings, dim lighting… It was apparent this place belonged to some twenty-something year old burnout with how the only couch in sight was used for dry humping and the table for holding bongs and an ashtray. Wookie even had a mattress, no sheets, laying in the middle of the ground as a makeshift seat for his guests. Reminds him a lot of Griff’s own bachelor pad down in the Bronx before he made it in the big leagues, except instead of walls, it was endless stacks of unfinished works, manuscripts and books. It was always hard to really _breathe_ in that tiny studio apartment (in which his toom also served as Ash's room) but those days with him are some of the best in his life.

—Beanbags! Maybe he has taste after all.

He shimmies through sweaty, dancing bodies to the secluded corner of the room, plopping down on the blue beanbag chair with a sigh. He pulls his backpack into his lap, unzips it and pulls out a thick, heavy binder full of essays he'd finished over the course of three weeks. 

“Ash!” shouts some nobody, tossing him a can of beer. Ash grins and tilts the can toward them as thanks. He cracks it open, slurping the foam that gathered at the lip and sets it on the ground beside him as he sorts through his neatly labeled binder. He rummages through his bag for his glasses and the leatherbound pocketbook Griff had got him for his sixteenth birthday, readying for business.

“A’ight! I’ve got a big ass binder with your names on it! Can we start a line or somethin’?” orders Ash, watching his surroundings get sharp as he places his specs over his nose. A pool of people begin to flood this little vacated space, causing the guy next to him to squirm uncomfortably in his chair. “Do we have Liz in the house? Liz?” 

A cute brunette struts toward him in her pink, plaid two piece skirt and coat, lips gooped and glossed with strawberry Lip Smackers. She leans down to fetch her B, Psych writeup, and Ash catches an eyeful of her cleavage. He pushes his glasses up and stares up at her face, smirking.

“You're awesome,” she tells him, staring up at him from fake, clumpy eyelashes.

“Yeah. Come do business with me again,” he says with a wink. His gaze lingers on her backside for a moment before he snaps back to the task at hand.

A Sociology paper.

“Cain? Cain here?”

“Thanks man.” And a fistbump.

“You could’ve written this all up yourself. It was _that_ easy,” teases Ash.

“That’s why I paid _your_ scrawny ass t’do it. Ain’t got time for that shit!” Touché. Maybe it’s best if Ash shut his mouth. Might hurt business if he were to reveal the difficulty of the paper.

So he does this for another fifteen minutes and then some, matching up neatly stapled papers to names and faces he barely recognizes, emptying the binder to take more orders. He’s already halfway through his fourth beer by the time he’s done, left only with the essays of those who didn’t show up to Wookie’s or simply weren’t invited.

“Two weeks!” he slurs. “Two weeks an’ I’m takin’ orders again before spring break. First ten spots!”

And the crowd. Goes. Wild.

It was so strange to him. Watching teenagers cheer about cheating and all. It’s probably the beer, the grass, but gee, they really knew how to make a guy feel special.

See, he never really asked to be like this; what you call “gifted” or “prodigious.” His entire life, he’d play off his excellence in the arts and whatnot as things he worked hard to understand. But no. That’s a lie. He just had a knack for learning. Ash doesn’t think he ever needed to be told more than once on how to do something because it’d just imprint itself on the fibers of his brain like some sixth sense.

It wasn’t normal, and most definitely not cool in the slightest. It was a goddamned curse sent to ruin his chances to be an ordinary kid. For as long as he could remember, he’d pretend to be on par with the kids in his classes so as to not skip grades and have everyone talk behind his back. It wasn’t that hard, anyways. He’d not do homework on purpose and flunk a couple of tests until all of his classes averaged out to a C. 

Of course, college came rolling around and he embraced these gifts with open arms. What started as a short-term paper for a fellow Journalism student spiraled into _this_. Popularity and invites and hootch and _girls._

This was the dream, lightheaded and drunk on some guy’s beanbag chair, tapping his foot to loud music. It's the kind of aimlessness he desired, this tiny revolt against everyone who put him up on a pedestal and paved him a golden path that he didn't want to walk.

It’s like he's looking through a kaleidoscope, bodies all becoming blurs. The synthetic beats of the stereo are becoming warped, like the world was slowing down just for him. He likes it, having this power to make things just _stop_. (Though it did leave him with a raging migraine.)

The stars are much prettier under his eyelids, anyways. He wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

That fuzzy and throbbing feeling was expected, but right now, it’s like everything’s cranked up to one hundred. He can’t even move his head without his whole body feeling like it’s on fire.

He recognizes this molded ceiling, this wall adorned with action movie posters and Bowie and Joy Division. It takes a minute for the fast-paced disco to register. With how his ears are bleeding to [Donna Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqZY8P42pLo), he knows where he is.

What the fuck? How did he end up in his room?

He doesn’t know what exact time it is, but he knows it’s morning by how harsh the sun is on his swollen face. Kind of like some wake up call, scolding him for being dumb yet again on a weekday. Sun’s a lot like Griff. Too damn bright and too much of a goddamned nag.

Well, maybe he has time for a shower and—

“It’s like _twelve_.” Nevermind.

Sing is at his desk, sitting criss-crossed with a bag of Lays on his lap, watching Ash’s miserable hangover as if it was a Saturday morning cartoon. Ash winces as he turns his head a fraction, glaring at him through his bangs as if to say _fuck you, leave me alone._

“Who brought me here?” Ash asks, not wanting to pick a fight with his fun-sized roommate. He shifts on his spring mattress until he’s sitting against the wall.

“Some upperclassman with purple hair,” he answers simply. “Dude, you were— _are_ — all kinds of fucked up.”

Ash takes a quick once-over, noticing all of the bandaids scattered along his arm and the bruising that poked underneath them. He touches his face, feeling more bandaids on his forehead and slight swelling to his right eye.

“What the hell happened?”

“How am I ‘sposed to know? I wasn’t there.” There’s a hint of venom there in his voice, causing Ash to chuckle. Sing was always one to get touchy about this type of shit. Always had this inferiority complex of being eighteen and short and hard to take seriously.

“You mad?” Ash goads.

“No.” He crosses arms and pouts, looking away. “Okay, maybe a _little_.”

“Fine handiwork,” he says, picking at the adhesive of the bandaid. “Thanks, I guess. Not sure how I got these bruises and shit but…”

“You’re kinda the talk of the campus today. Said you had a little scrape with some guy at Wookie’s. Dunno who though.” Ash cringes at himself for blacking out and having to hear it all come out of Sing’s mouth. “You are _so_ lucky I got the munchies in the middle of the night. Your ass would’ve been asleep in the hallway if it weren’t for me!”

“I’ll write an essay for you, free of charge—”

“Uh, not so sure about that buddy.” Ash raises his brows. The way he was talking, _ugh,_ it made him so sore. They were the same age and all but damn, he just sounded like such a snot-nosed kid most of the time. Made Ash want to put him in a half nelson. “Apparently, faculty’s on your ass too. Had Lobo knock on the door a couple of hours ago, but I covered for you. You’re welcome, _again_.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I’ll bring you to a party next time.” If there even _is_ a next time. “As long as you aren't lame like you are now. And wouldja turn that trash off before I change my mind?”

Sing opens his mouth to protest but decides against it in his own desperation to experience ass and tits all up close and personal.

“You'll appreciate my taste in music one of these days.”

“Sure. When pigs fly,” mutters Ash.

All he can think about is how long of a day today is going to be. Should he play it safe or not be a pussy and show his face, wearing his battle scars with pride? He had already missed American Lit and Journalism— Missing two more won’t hurt. Maybe he’ll fuck around, read some books, listen to some music while Sing does whatever geed things he does, or pluck a bit on his guitar.

“God, you look terrible. Chip?” Sing sticks his hand in the bag and takes out a fistful, biting into it like a ripe apple before offering it to Ash. A little grease to start things off. Yeah, he’ll take it easy. Focus on himself today and— **_Oh shit._ **

Not the brightest idea to eat junk while on an empty stomach while _also_ filtering out the alcohol running through your veins. Here goes that nauseous feeling, white blindness, rancid taste on his tongue—

“Hey uh, Ash, are you gonna—”

“I am _definitely_ gonna—”

“ ** _Fuckin’_ **—” Sing scrambles for his desk wastebin. Ash tries to hold it in, clutches at his stomach as if it’d depressurize the bile about to eject from his throat.

It doesn’t. Before Sing can even turn around and aim it under his mouth, Mount Ash erupts there on his tee and jeans, second wave on the carpeted floor.

“Dude! Not the _Reeboks!_ ”

* * *

Sing, having called for custodians, basically gave the higher-ups the okay to raid their dorm and drag his ass by force to the dean’s office for some “questioning.” He always found that term to be misleading because, well, they already knew all of the answers to their so-called “questions.” It’s like the adults got off to some poor kid stuttering through a headache and hazy memories of a normal night in college. But Ash knows how this whole thing works. Tell 'em what they want to hear, and they may very well destroy you while inflating their already enormous egos. Play it dumb, and maybe, just _maybe_ you’ll be able to gaslight these assholes and any witnesses they’ve gathered. If all else fails, he’ll pull out his famous-older-brother trump card.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you, Mister Callenreese?” asks Dean Varishikov, wasting absolutely no time. Expected from a commie hardass. Ash can appreciate that.

Does he know why he’s here? Ash has a _vague_ idea from Sing, but in all honesty, no. No, he doesn’t. It wouldn’t really be lying if he says no, right? Being blackout drunk will do that to a guy.

He looks around his office, contemplating his answer.

How typical. Navy blue-painted walls. Certificates and medals in rotting wooden frames. A poster with an Einstein quote. Photographs with graduates— all in which he looks _exactly_ the same: Long brown hair and square jaw and a ripped bod. ( _A vampire?_ ) Ash swears principal and dean offices all across America have been copy and pasted hundreds and thousands of times because he was having the strangest deja vu of his life.

“Kinda sadistic, don’t you think? I mean, you didn’t even give me a chance to shower or brush my teeth,” snides Ash, taking one of the snowglobes off of his desk. He slumps in his chair and looks at Varishikov through the miniature snowy landscape, trying not to laugh at the forming wrinkles between his brows. “I don’t think BO or bad breath will help me in defending myself for whatever you’re gonna be accusing me of.”

“So you know you’re in some sort of trouble.”

“Yeah. I mean, just take a good look at me.” Ash motions to his battered body with a hand. “You think an angel would walk around like a madman with bandaids and bruises all over their body, smelling like _this_?”

“You seem very relaxed for being in trouble, Aslan—”

“Ash is fine.”

“— _Ash_.” Varishikov sighs and rests his chin on his knuckles. ”I’d just like your side of the altercation last night. I’ve got the other party’s account, so now I would like yours to see if everything lines up.”

“Y’know, could you give me the rundown? So I know we’re on the same page?” Ash sets the snowglobe down and straightens himself in his chair, crossing his leg over the other to mimic Varishikov’s tense posture. “‘Cause all I remember is that I drank last night—”

“ _Underage_.”

“Okay. Whatever. I’m a young man going through the motions, sir. Surely you understand my need for adventure in this here uh… _Institution_. Anyway, you can imagine the excitement I had after being invited to my first college party.” _Hardly._ He’s manifesting his best Sing impression right now. “Dancing and beer and strobe lights and _women_ , Mister Man. I felt like a big shot.” (He really didn’t want to butcher his last name.) “So I go up there, right? And I’m treating this like a field trip with my glasses and pocketbook, ready to make some new friends, or even score a date. So this guy gets me a beer, and obviously I take it. Wouldn’t wanna look like a chump in front of a bunch of upperclassmen. But then one becomes two, ‘cause getting drunk off one is just social suicide. Frankly, my body isn’t used to alcohol. I’ve only ever drank with Griff— You know Griff, right? Griffin Callenreese? He graduated a few years back here.”

“Yes, I know Griffin. Excellent student. Would you get to the point?” _Total_ commie. Challenge accepted.

“So I’m drunk off a couple’a beers, and totally black out after. I don’t remember a thing, honest. Next thing I know I’m in my dorm with Donna playin’ in the back and all these bandages on my body, absolutely _fucked_ —”

“ _Language._ ”

“Absolutely messed up. There’s my side of things. Don’t even remember the hombre or hombress that did this to me.”

“I’m getting that you think you’re in here solely because of a scuffle with another student.”

“Yessir.” Another sigh. This guy was not havin’ it.

“While I’d like to get to the bottom of that, there is a more pressing detail that the other party mentioned.” Virishikov stands up, and _hoo boy_ is he a giant. Total gargantuan—cyclops of a guy, ‘cept he has two eyes and he isn’t all that ugly. Ash has to lift his head to look him in the eye. What a power move. Kudos. “They said that the altercation was because of some ‘unfair business.’ Would you like to expand on that?”

Ah. So a snitch. You know, he foresaw this day coming, but not so early.

“‘Unfair business?’ I mean no disrespect, sir, none at all, but isn’t the fact that I totally got ragged on more important?” Ash can feel his frustration seeping out of him through his voice, nonchalant demeanor chipping away. 

“It _is_ a cause for concern, but it happened off campus. We’re only addressing this issue because someone called it in to us. What’s more concerning is that you were reported for suspicious activity or, again, _unfair business._ ”

“Oh my God.” Ash chuckles in disbelief. “Wait, lemme get this straight. You think that I— _Me?_ You think that I’m peddlin’ drugs or somethin’? Holy shit.” He erupts in convulsions, clutching his stomach at the absurdity of it all. “That’s grand!”

“There’s really nothing funny about it,” he says, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of him. “Drugs or dealers of any sorts are not welcome on campus, Mister Callenreese. It’s detrimental to the safety of students and the reputation of this—”

“All I needed to hear was ‘reputation’ to know what you were getting at. That’s all you wannabes ever care about.” Ash flips his bangs out of view. He could really go for a smoke right now. Even if Ash did happen to venture into the marijuana business, he'd at least be smart enough to hide his tracks. Only an idiot would be caught selling it.“Y’wanna talk reputation? Fine. I’ve got a spotless record. A little on the dunce side, but spotless nonetheless. You really think a fresh-faced freshman could be packin’ weed?”

“Ash—”

“Nah, wait. Who’s this ‘other party’ you keep mentioning anyways? Are they even credible, dumping all these lies on me? I’d be a damn easy target if y’ask me.” Varishikov seems to consider his words for a moment, even nodding his head in agreement. “Believe what you want. You can search my shit— my dorm, fuck, you can drive all the way down to Cape Cod and you won’t find a single thing. Maybe some porno mags—”

“Sergei!” Someone barges into the door and they both shoot their heads back at the intrusion. Immediately, Ash sinks into his chair and buries his face in his hands.

Great. Just great. Perfect timing. His _defense attorney_ showed up at the right time when he had wrapped around his pinky.

“Max?” He can hear the moron do that nervous laugh and neck scratch combo.

“Hey, uh… I know this is a bit… last minute.” He can feel his eyes on him, feel the idiocy radiate off on his body. Ash holds his breath so he doesn’t catch whatever he has. “I just wanted to let you know about Ash before any consequence is decided. He’s an extraordinary student despite what his grades reflect—”

“Jesus H. Christ,” grumbles Ash under his breath, pushing down all the veins that had popped up on his forehead. Here we go again. Some old jarhead who thinks he’s got him all figured out.

“Who just needs a little nudge in the right direction. He’s got a smart tongue,” Varishikov nods his head (this is _unbelievable!_ ), “but he isn’t capable of anything else! Trust me, I’ve known this kid since he was up to my waist! He wouldn’t hurt a fly, without reason at least!”

“God, sir. If you’re gonna expel me or somethin’, do it now—”

“Everyone is so quick to think I’m going to do something _drastic_ ,” laughs Varishikov. His deep, guttural laugh reminds Ash of some movie villain. It’s pretty scary actually. Even leaves Lobo speechless. Ash makes sure that if he ever steps foot in here again to never crack a joke. “We _will_ be searching your dorm, but for right now, you’re being punished for breaking curfew. I have reason to believe you, this being your first time offense and all, but precautions are necessary for the well-being of—”

“The students and yadda yadda yadda. Okay. What’s the punishment so we can all get on with our lives?” he asks impatiently, darting his head from Corporal Cunt to Lieutenant Limp-Dick. The two connect eyes for a moment, stare lingering for a few uncomfortable moments before busting out in a cacophony of Joker-wheezing. 

“He’s Griffin’s brother alright.”

“Told ya!”

“Are you losers being serious right now?” Ash scowls. He always meant to use Griffin to lessen whatever sentences he would be given, but _shit_. He curses him for ever being born because he hates this. The comparisons, the ridicule, this _prestige_ for being the younger brother of some bigwig poet. He’s nothing like that sellout. “I’m _leaving_ —”

Before Ash can exit, Lobo blocks him. (Seriously, what’s up with these geezers and their linebacker physiques? That’s another thing he hates. Old people, especially if they’re meatheads.)

“Well, the real reason I’m here is because I have a _proposition_.” He does not like this one bit. That mischievous grin and those crinkles by the corners of his eyes. “I believe in reform much more than punishment.”

* * *

“What the hell, Max? Are you kidding me? A fucking _club_?” 

“I helped you out! It could’ve been much worse if it weren’t for me!” Lobo interjects, trying his best to keep up with Ash’s angry pace. He’s already huffing and puffing and they hadn’t even been out for five minutes. “And it’s Professor—”

“No. I had everything under control! I didn’t need your help, and I certainly would’ve liked a house arrest better than some nerd club—”

“Oh, don’t make me _laugh_ Ash! You know as well as I do that you were digging yourself a deeper hole with your smart aleck tone. You should be thanking me for at least giving you the freedom—”

“Freedom? Nothing is _free_ about spending precious time working for a newspaper that absolutely _no one_ reads! What a load of crap!” Ash gesticulates furiously, forgetting about the pain in his limbs. Oh, forget concert tickets and women and booze! They're nothing but fleeting dreams now because of Max Fucking Lobo! Youth, you tasted so sweet while you lasted!

“Hey, I read ‘em,” whispers Lobo in a soft tone. “Y’know, Griff and I were in—”

“‘Griff this.’ ‘Griff that.’ Shut up already!” It’s a red-hot anger, a culmination of all of his pent up emotions towards this stupid college and major and brother and his even dumber friends. The one thing that made him genuinely have purpose on this godforsaken world was snatched away by some dolt at a party and some jaded journalist. Ash turns on his heel and glowers at him, relishing in the hurt on his face. “I’m not him. Will never be him. So stop playing buddy-buddy with me ‘cause you guys are pals.”

Lobo exhales a long, held breath, and plops one of his big, grubby hands right on his shoulder like he’s some old chum. Ash shrugs him off, familiarity _not_ mutual.

“I’ve seen what you can do. Kids like you think you can fool me, but even I’ve got some wits left. You write the most random shit in my class, which is your grade is the way it is since you purposely don’t follow directions. But hot damn, if your columns and satires aren't the funniest and the most compelling things I’ve ever read…”

Ash flushes embarrassedly at the backhanded compliment, pulling the collar of his shirt out to cool himself off.

“So what?”

“So what? _So what?_ You’ve got a real spark, Ash! Talent!”

“Whatever.”

“Honest!” Lobo wraps an arm around his shoulders, and this time, Ash doesn’t shy away. He listens cautiously instead, watching for traps. “I won’t force you to join then. Just think about it, at least.” What is this? Reverse psychology? “We meet in my room at four on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Weekends too if needed. I’m advising three upperclassman— You’ll really like ‘em. We could really use the extra help and some of your angsty teen spunk to bring the school newspaper back into the student body’s hand.” Ash rolls his eyes. “With you around, we’ll really stick it to the broadcasting club!”

“I’ll… think about it,” Ash considers, trying to be polite for once.

It’d be funny to sabotage the paper. Put some raunchy jokes in there, write columns on the biggest dickheads and fattest cake on campus… Yeah. It won’t be so bad to bite into revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUH????????? ANOTHER FIC????? whatever yall i say get ur ideas out there instead of bottling it up NFKDKSLLSLSOL—
> 
> This story is heavily inspired by The Catcher in the Rye and a bunch of chick flicks. It'll be a short series to blow off some steam/vent before I go back to school. :'-) 
> 
> Thank you for reading this silly lil fic!! Stay safe and take care!


	2. a trapped lynx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where art thou, Backpack? (And how the hell did he end up at Lobo's again?)

Ash balances a pencil on his upper lip as he listens to Lobo drone on inverted pyramids and all of that mumbo-jumbo. Somewhere along the way he’d basically given up on trying to pay attention and decided to play with this wooden pencil the girl behind him had let him borrow out of pity, because, well, all of his shit is basically _gone._ His backpack’s out in the world somewhere, poor and lonely and dying to keep Ash’s back warm. 

But seriously. His backpack has his binder, pocketbook, glasses and a huge wad of cash. It was one thing to be a slacker, but to not even bring a piece of paper? Blasphemy! Total judgement from your peers! And what made matters worse is people talking behind his back for supposedly picking a fight with an upperclassman. Bullshit. (Not that he’d know if he threw the first punch or not. It’s just that he expected a bit more glory for being shit-faced drunk and living to tell the tale.) He can’t even make out an image clearly without squinting and looking like an absolute nutjob!

Where could that stupid thing be? He has a hunch that the snitch has it, whoever they are. Asking around campus is out of the question. Nope. There’s no way in _Hell_ that he’d loiter around and hand out missing backpack flyers. 

Ash stays optimistic however. He’s been giving out positive vibes into the universe (mostly), right? It’ll show up in due time, somehow, somewhere. By no means is he religious, but as an extra precaution, he slaps his hands together and prays. _God, wherever you are, get my backpack home safe. I’ve got hard-earned money in there._

Sunlight spills in through that big window beside him and casts a sleepy, yellow spell. The girl behind him whispers quick, snappy comments that stop with every one of Lobo's aimed glares, deciding whether or not she should nudge him awake. Try as he might to ward it off, the honeyed taste on his tongue is too sweet, too addictive, and he laps it up until he’s full and tired. He folds his arms over his desk and lets his body fall into a deep state of relaxation. He plunges into a distant memory of a seaside town with a book covering his face as he listens to waves crash onto shore and recede and the airy voice of Griff reciting _Sunny Prestatyn._

It’s real nice here on this island getaway. Warm. Relaxing. He decides to stay awhile before heading back and dealing with faceless blabbermouths, disco-tech, and an insufferable professor. Summertime, beer, and— oh! His backpack! What more could he ask for?

* * *

"You’ve got some nerve droolin’ during my class.” A nudge. He doesn’t move. A poke. He stirs, but doesn’t lift his head up just yet. Then, a slap on the head.

“Leave me alone. Busy,” he murmurs, swatting anything within proximity away from his head. Lobo is one lucky bastard. _Real lucky_ , because had he been anyone else, he'd have his claws out, teeth bared and snarling; daring the world to take him on. Sing had tried this exact three-step method once and it didn't end well for him. It was nothing _too_ serious— Ash isn't a bully or some kind of moron to leave a scratch on him. What he did was give him a taste of death, wrestling him onto the ground and smothering him with a pillow until he tapped out. ( _“I’m dying!” “That was the plan, ya spaz!”)_

Lobo is a pretty big, sculpted guy, but he’s a family man. He’s on the way to a beer belly, a five o’ clock shadow and a receding hairline. Geezer’s way past being in tippity top shape— panting as if he had finished a 5k after going up a single flight of stairs. Ash could take him out _easy_ if they hadn't been in a school setting.

“Maybe if you had slept earlier—”

“Yeah, _no._ ” 

“You have a bed, don’t you? Take your nap there! I can’t grade papers if you’re here snorin’ up a storm!”

“You’ve got an office, don’tcha?” Ash spares him an exasperated glance, the sudden shift from the darkness between his arms and the morning light straining his eyes. “Varishikov wasn’t kidding about searching my room. His goons are probably there now, flipping my mattress and tearin’ down my posters and shit.” He clenches his fists at the mere thought of someone ripping the corners of _[Unknown Pleasures](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhCLalLXHP4) _off his wall. Blood begins to boil when he imagines some fat klutz handling his records and cassettes, dropping them left and right until they’re either shattered into smithereens or disemboweled, exploding with tape gore. The horror! Ash isn't sure if he can stomach such an ungodly scene! “Decided to stay put here. Figured if I went back and saw something I didn't wanna see, I’d freak and seriously give ‘em a reason to kick me outta here.”

“There are other places to go. There’s benches outside—”

“It’s hot.” And it reeks of fertilizer. The school probably uses the kind with human feces alongside other top secret laboratory concoctions. Funny, because as much as the school liked to desecrate the landscape with all of this Miracle-Gro, it was as dry as the Sahara— like it was incapable of producing any life. It’s spring already and patches of grass are all dried up and the cracks in the pavement have an overgrowth of pesky weeds. Where there should be hyacinths and daffodils are cigarette butts and poorly aimed crushed soda cans. He supposes it wasn’t always like this, so lifeless and barren. Probably was a hot chick back in its prehistoric time of Griffin Callenreese and Max Lobo, but let herself go once he came rollin’ around. That’s expected though, considering most of the school’s funds go to stupid shit like upgrading the stadiums and managing already perfectly-kempt fields. Priorities.

“Don’t you have any friends to hang out with?”

Ash laughs, shaking his head.

“You’re killin’ me, man.”

“Seriously? But you’re so likeable and… _gnarly."_

Ash gags at the lame attempt by Lobo to act all ‘funky fresh’ with the kids. _Gnarly._ What a shitty word. Sounds like some surfer dude that eats blunts with a glass of milk for breakfast. “And that’s my cue to book it. See ya,” he says. He gets up and tucks the wooden pencil behind his ear, looking all dork-like. “Please don't say that ever again.”

Lobo stops him with one of those grubby hands of his. “Before you go, don’t forget about later!”

“What about ‘later?’ I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Newspaper club ring any bells?”

“Newspaper club! Gee, how could I forget?” He swipes one index finger over the other. “Shame on me!” Ash didn’t forget. He _did_ spend some time in bed thinking about Lobo's proposition. About what he could bring to the table, how his whimsical writing wizardry could save his dying band of nobodies. After five or so minutes of pondering, _really_ pondering it, he had come to the conclusion of not showing up to save face around campus.

“Good! Then I’ll catch you later?”

He pales. “Oh man, wouldja look at the time!” He rolls down the sleeve of his flannel to uncover an imaginary watch. Ash grits his teeth and frowns, shrugging his shoulders to feign his remorse.“Gotta run. Next time, Lobo!” And he bolts for the door. 

Lobo is mad as a dog, calling him by his full name like some old widow calling her middle-aged manchild for dinner. “Aslan Jade Callenreese!” he rues all villainy. Makes him think of one of those evil scientist caricatures, the kind with curly mustaches and slicked back hair that always curses the hero. Imagining Lobo in such a fashion humors him for a good second, letting it distract him from the fact that the old man’s scheming to ensnare him in his devious reformation plan.

* * *

He decides the library is the best next option. It was universal that libraries gave him this sense of tranquility. Something in the sallow pages of an antiquated book and the endless knowledge sorted all neat and tidy in towering shelves, the methodical scratch of a pencil, that faint smell of linseed oil and sandalwood lingering in the air... Reminds him of Sunday mornings when Griff would take him down to the library on Fifth Avenue whenever he came to New York to visit him, letting him check out all of the books that captured his childish fancies. From _Beezus and Ramona_ to anthologies on beloved fables, biographies on Buzz Aldrin and Bob Dylan, and picture books with fantastical illustrations, Ash had never felt bored in those walls, those wooden rows of tables as Griff wrote and wrote and wrote for hours coming up with a modern masterpiece.

This was no Rose Reading Room, but it was enough to kill an hour or two. His hand runs down the spines of books he’s already read before; Austen to Brontë, Faulkner to Fitzgerald, Hemingway to Hesse, letting dust coat the pad of his finger. He wasn’t really looking to invest himself in a parallel world deeper than this life, but a cover to ward off the old crabby librarians that would squeak around in their beige, velcro geriatric shoes; shushing and shooing anyone that was caught slacking around. _Right,_ because the library was strictly work and no play. (Tell that to the gross, mushy couple with an expiration date of two months in aisle three, sucking each other’s face off like a babe to a teat.)

He unshelves a rather thick book, one that he’s unfamiliar with; pretending to read its contents as one of the library ladies helicopter him to make sure he isn’t just loitering around. In his peripheral, he sees her finally notice the halfwits (together, a wholewit) making out in the back and walk in the fastest pace she could to scold them. Ash huffs and shuts the book. Before he returns to its original place, from the other side of the shelf, a doe-eyed boy stares at him, busying himself with a novel of his own when he catches Ash’s gaze. He raises a brow. _Weird._

Now, when he stalks to the other end of the shelf and takes out another book, he’s keen on the idea that this wasn’t mere coincidence. There he is, babyface and his flustered stupor acting all sus. He sorta looks like Sing with his dark hair and stare, but much kinder and most definitely _taller._ Who is this guy, anyway? Is he tailing him? A rumormonger? A spy of Lobo’s or Varishikov’s? The snitch?

Conspiracies; they’re all around him! He feels like he oughta go over there, fists all white-knuckled and ask him what his deal is. It’s kind of an aggressive approach, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on edge lately and easier to provoke with everything that's been going on. Better to squash out a pest before they start forming colonies. 

He rounds the corner all sly and he crashes upon impact, knocking the tower in the kid’s arms down.

“My bad,” he says with a laugh, bending down to collect the fallen papers and books. Ash sighs, feeling a moral obligation to help him out. “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve got—”

“‘S all good,” Ash mumbles, observing his choices. Photography and recipe books. Tolkien. Ash smirks and confirms his suspicions of this dude being a huge geek with his thick-rimmed glasses, high-waisted loose khakis and navy knitted sweater. Might as well have stuck a sticky note on his back that says ‘ **BULLY ME.** ’

Ash reaches for one of his papers, a graded assignment with a fat seventy-two percent plastered in red on the top right corner. Perhaps he’s the figure-collecting type of dork, the kind that likes to frame vintage comic books and play on his NES in his free time because he definitely doesn’t seem like the sharpest tool in the shed. 

He snatches the paper away from Ash’s hold, embarrassed by his grade. He can practically see his glasses fogging up, his face turn tomato-red at Ash’s silent judgement.

“It’s my weakest subject,” he explains, scratching his cheek. “I'm not very good with numbers.”

Ash hands him the pile he had gathered. “Looks like you’re about to cram for a culinary class and a D&D campaign, dude. What’s up with that?”

He chuckles at his offhanded joke, making his nervous habit of playing with his bangs known. “For fun! But the photography ones are for reference.” Ash nods his head, though not completely buying his intentions. “Thanks for lending me a hand.”

“No biggie.”

“I guess I’ll go on ahead and study for that cooking class and D&D.” The guy smiles all toothy. He gives off rabid bunny vibes with his two front teeth and fangs sticking out. It’s kind of infectious, actually. Ash finds himself smirking back at his goofy face. Almost makes him feel bad for thinking he was some faculty insider or celibate dweeb. “Bye bye,” he waves.

“Later,” Ash says, though he's already turned his back on him. There's something awfully familiar about that guy. It wasn't quite déjà vu or apophenia or any of that superstitious sounding crap. Just an odd, fuzzy kind of sensation sprouting from his chest that he couldn't quite name. His gaze remains on his shrinking form a while longer before being rudely interrupted by a phlegmy ‘ _ahem_.’

Lucille Goddamn Ball’s got her diaper in a twist and is giving him the ol’ death glare with her glaucoma-ridden eyes, the tapping of her chunky shoes making things ten times worse. Ash clicks his tongue in annoyance and turns on his heel, disappearing in another row of books. 

He finds himself in the romance section with those cheesy shirtless studs and their sexy corseted bimbettes and decides this is quite possibly the best spot to screw around without having some senile grandma breathing down your neck. Ash takes it upon himself to pick out the novel with the raunchiest cover. He isn't surprised to see that it's one with Fabio with his junk hidden by some chick’s shoulder. He cringes at her awkward pose and even more awkward expression. Looks like she was getting off on Fabio practically rubbing up against her. It piques his interest though (sex sells and all), and he opens to a random page in the middle, hoping it was some risqué scene between the two main characters. 

Hoo boy. It did not disappoint. Either the person who wrote this is a virgin or some horny forty-something year old housewife in desperate need of cunnilingus, because _hot damn_ , this was an absolute dumpster fire. It’s the ‘so bad, it's good’ kinda dumpster fire though. The ‘I can’t pry my eyes off’ kind.

He supposes women have this stance on sex that it's some sacred, spiritual thing— an act meant to be embellished in pretty words and imagery and sugary sweet nothings; where terms like ‘dick’ and ‘cock’ are deemed too harsh and are replaced with stupid euphemisms like ‘manhood’ or ‘nether region.’ Reading this style of writing is akin to crossing into another dimension. A dimension where it's all sunshine and rainbows and all of the good girls and boys shag because they love each other and yadda yadda yadda. It's a real fantasy, isn't it? So out of touch with reality. Sex is nothing but a hobby nowadays, a nice rush of dopamine to get the head all cleared up and high.

Unabashedly so, Ash is hooked on this foreign concept of romance and sex coexisting. He starts from the beginning, and he can't seem to put it down. Instead of napping, he spends his time scarfing down pages of a damsel in distress and her knight in shining armor, swept away by a farce that needed to be seen in order to be believed.

* * *

He checks out three romance novels— For _research purposes_ of course, and to boost his ego. There's gratification in knowing that a published author can get paid for dogshit work. Gives him hope that he can half-ass stuff and still make a living.

Anyway, Sing’s already back in their room, blasting [MJ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BfcRjZn6y4) on his Walkman, feet kicked up on his desk as he eats from one of those instant ramen bowls.

“Where’ve you been?” yells Sing over the hundred-decibel pop drivel. “I had t’deal with our little room raid!”

“Library.”

“What?”

“Library.”

“Huh?!”

“You’re deaf,” mutters Ash, crashing onto his bed with his books. He notes that everything seems to be in place, if not a little _neater._ He exhales in relief. _So far, so good._

“What the fuck is _this?_ ” Sing asks with mischief, snatching one of the books from the stack at Ash’s legs. His headphones are slung around his neck now as he previews the content of one of the novels, whistling at the cover and particularly vulgar words.

Ash smirks. “Classic American literature, bud. All written in a prose that challenges the romance in Shakespeare dramas.”

“‘ _There’s more to love than two pelvises in a tussle,_ ’” Sing quotes with a high-pitched voice. “You’ve gotta be yankin’ my chain bro,” he laughs.

“Peak writing. Shit’s immaculate, ain’t it?”

“I didn’t know you were into this type’a junk!” Sing doubles over, noodles leaking onto his jeans. Apparently, the fact that Ash had taken a liking to terribly written smut-fests is way more important than the actual mess he’s making with his bowl of sodium. 

“You can borrow one if you want. Virgin like yourself might learn a thing or two since you’re too much of a midget to go out and buy yourself an issue of _Playboy_ ,” quips Ash.

“Oh _fuck you_.” He tosses the wretched novel back to the pile. “I’ve fucked _plenty_ , FYI.”

“Humor me, pussy sire.”

Sing’s face heats up at the epithet, lips stuttering as he tries to conjure up some spicy anecdote to impress Ash. The latter lays on his side, cheek smugly resting on his palm as he watches him malfunction at the mere thought of the female anatomy.

“Last year. Senior party. Sally Davenport and I made out in a closet with tongue—”

Ash gasps. “‘With tongue,’ he says!”

“—I kid you not, I _may_ have grabbed a titty or two,” he explains, chin tilted up all haughty and proud.

“Wow.” Ash claps slowly. “Awesome. A total panty-dropper. Cherry-popper.”

“I know, I know,” Sing shrugs, basking in Ash’s half-hearted praise. “I’m sort of a ladykiller.”

Ash rolls his eyes, unsure if he should be amazed as Sing’s dense Oscar-worthy performance or his pathetic naivety. He leaves it at that to save Sing from any more embarrassment. 

—How he missed his bed! It felt extra soft today for some reason. Comfier.

“Yo, Ash.” Not now, Sing! He's been waiting for this moment since he got up this morning! 

Ash makes a noise that sounds kind of like “ _hrrngh_ ” as he hugs his pillow, honeymooning with his dear mattress.

“Forgot t’tell ya that your shit was dropped off earlier.”

“Hm?” 

“Your bag. I put it under your desk so—”

 _Wait a sec._ Ash scrambles to his feet. “Did you say my bag?”

“Are you deaf?” The audacity of this guy. Totally one to talk.

He ducks his head beneath the wooden table and sees it there in all its pinned glory! Ash was never the spiritual type, but this _had_ to be instant-karma or something. For helping that clumsy chump out in the library and hyping up Sing’s sorry excuse of a bedside encounter. 

“You are a _saint_ ,” Ash says, standing up and approaching Sing with open arms. Sing rolls his chair back to his side of the room, wary of Ash’s change of disposition.

“Those books’re makin’ you mental. Back it up before I go for your jugular.” Sing prepares for battle, getting into a crane stance. “I’ve watched _The Karate Kid_ three times. Don’t test me.”

“I’ve been lookin’ for this for days!”

“You should be kissin’ somebody else’s ass!”

“I don't know whose else to kiss.” He puts him in a headlock and noogies him to kingdom come. “I might love you.”

“ _Euugh._ Okay, whatever! _”_ Sing pummels his arm in attempts to free himself from Ash’s vice grip.

Pocketbook? Check.

Binder? Check.

Glasses? He finds them at the very bottom swimming in chip crumbs and Hershey’s candy wrappers. He puts them on, delighting in the world’s mint high-definition. One look at Sing, however, makes him take them off. Some things are just meant to stay blurry. 

Yeah, everything seemed to be in order— Wait.

“Sing, did you go through my shit?” Love rescinded. He rummages through his junk again, going as far to dump everything on his bed. He fists through front pockets and cup holders and can’t find the damned thing anywhere!

“Dude, I told you—”

“Did. You. Go. Through. My. Shit?” he articulates clearer through grit teeth, eyes narrowing. 

“Why would I do that? There’s jack in there.” Sing smirks all high-and-mighty and shit, proceeding to slurp the remains of his soup. “The hell would I do with [Lou Reed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WzdYMv4MM0) cassettes and orange juice cartons?”

“Yeah, _totally_. If you think two fat ones— _cash_ — is ‘jack.’ Now tell me who the fuck stopped by here earlier—”

“Two hunnies?” Sing chokes in disbelief, eyes bulging out of their sockets. “What was _that_ kinda dough doin’ in there?”

Ten bucks for a college student? Enough to buy breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Ronald’s. Twenty? That's fancy. Could get a whole tray of sushi with the expensive raw fish— _the real kind_ — and a nice little feast of side dishes pumped with MSG. Now, two _hundred_ ? Two hundred is a gateway into the elite, basically. A realm above beer bottles and trashy college broads and nonexistent furniture. It was enough for a party with foie gras and pate and leather couches and bodacious escorts with hot bods, _au naturel_. The classy, clean girls with permed hair, big, bouncing boobies, a nice ass and two real rows of straight, white teeth.

“Three weeks worth of work.. So many sleepless nights, now out in the wild. Shit. Fuck my life.” Ash takes a fistful of his hair and pulls it like a madman, really thinking it would just rip from his scalp. “I’m wasting my time here. Just tell me who the perp is.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yup.”

Ash sighs and buries his face in his palms. “Fifty.”

“Sixty.”

“Fifty-five.”

“Fifty-six.”

“ _Six?_ Ugh, what kind of number is _that?_ ”

“Fifty-seven. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Funny thing is that this morning, he told himself he wouldn’t loiter around campus doing dumb, idiot shit. But here he is, hands gripping the straps of his backpack like a kid who had just missed his bus as he scans the area for this purple-haired, asshole who stole his coin— doing dumb, idiot shit.

Ash is well aware that faculty’s looking over his shoulder with hawk-eyes and that he’s got a super delicate body. Or at least, _more_ on the delicate side. Basic white guy structure: skinny, pale, fairly easy to bruise. But what separated him from the other, dry, pasty Anglo-Saxons is that he’s got experience with fisticuffs— full on slugfests with blockheads way bigger than him. (Thank you, high school baseball.) He knows the ways of duking it out and the art of nosebleeds and knocked-out teeth. A thing of beauty, really. The rudimentary definition of what makes a man a man.

He’s treading on really thin ice at this point, but he is ready and willing to throw hands over two hundred dollars. He thinks about those dreary nights hunched over a computer at the library downing coffee by the gallons, the carpal tunnel at his wrists. Ash isn’t sure how Griff would get him out of this one, but he’s at the point of giving absolutely no fucks.

This is the equivalent of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand.

 **This is war**.

So, he strips all of his dignity and walks around scouting the area darting from head to head, kicking around a stray pebble whenever he gets bored. He must’ve been out for like an hour, letting his knees get locked up. You’d think it’d be easy to pick out some grape lookin’ maniac over seas of black, blond, brunettes and the occasional ginger, but no. Either this guy’s a total hermit or something, but shit, he was close to giving up and calling it a day.

Ash shrugs off his flannel and puts the sleeves through his belt loops, tying it around his hips. The sun’s at its hottest by this time in the afternoon and that fishy smell was really getting to his head, making him all loopy. He fans himself with a hand, feeling all of his energy gradually deplete with each passing second.

“Well, if it ain't Ash Lynx! ” Before he has time to even thoroughly dig his mind to match a face to this lispy voice, he’s got a sleazy arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“Do I know you?” The guy looks sickly— Way thinner than him and like the entirety of the top row of his grills are missing besides his little cat fangs. He’s got a gaunt mug, cheeks hollowed out, bones jagged and long, ratty strawberry blond hair tied in a bun. Ash wonders how a drug addict snuck past through campus security.

“Dunno, but I know _you_ —”

“Damn, Bones. You’re gonna scare the poor kid off,” some other dude interjects, making this ‘Bones’ guy. He looks way more genial and healthy, though nothing really strikes him as being a memorable person. Brown hair parted to the left, blue eyes, and quite possibly the darkest eyebags he’s ever seen, rivaling his own. He’s definitely seen some shit in his life. “Anyways, Ash right? Alex.” He sticks a hand out, and reluctantly, Ash takes it. “This loser’s Ben. We like t’call ‘im Bones since he’s a damn twig.”

“Yo!” Bones throws a peace sign.

“Big fella over there’s Ali. Say hi.” Ash had failed to notice the ginormous titan casting a shadowing behind him, standing as still as a rock. He waves politely, though Ash has to crane his head up to get a really good look at him.

“Kong is okay.” For being such a tall and brooding person, he’s got such a soft voice, like he’s ruminated on his words a few times before actually speaking.

“Oh, let me guess. Because you’re built like a tank?” infers Ash with a know-it-all quirk of his lip.

“No, actually. He’s got the high score on _Donkey Kong_ at the arcade ‘round here. Name kinda just stuck,” Alex explains, motioning to him with a hand.

Ash crosses his arms and inspects this strange trio through narrowed eyes: one doused in cheap, fruity cologne, the other a gentle giant, and lastly, some insomniac trying way too hard to blend into society. A ragtag group like this could only be brought together by one thing and one thing only.

“Business is closed right now, so...”

Bones and Alex lock eyes for a split-second before breaking out into a fit of chuckles, Kong grinning behind a hand. 

“Shit man, thought you lost your way or somethin’!” exclaims Bones with his gums.

“You’re tellin’ _us_ that? Who do you think we are, freshman?” Frankly, a bunch of toked upperclassmen too busy wiggin’ out.

“You’re here for essays, right?”

Kong shakes his head, plopping one of his bear paws onto his shoulder. “We’re on our way to Professor Lobo’s like you.”

“Reportin’ for duty!”

* * *

Had you told Ash he’d be stuck in a room with three amateurish narcs and Lobo with empty pockets at the beginning of the school year, he’d have blown his brains out already with a 12-gauge. Totally not his scene. He’d have bolted out if it weren’t for that clydesdale Kong blocking his escape route.

Right now, he’s sitting in the back of the room with his Chucks kicked up on the desk, counting the birds in the sky until someone finally decides to speak up. This operation’s completely disorganized. Lobo looks like he’s the backbone of this whole circle, ironic because this whole thing’s supposed to be student-led. Kong’s pressed up against the door with [Run-DMC](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KB6SILem5Xs) pounding in his ears and Bones is tapping away with two unsharpened pencils. Alex is completely passed out in his seat, head pulled back like he’s staring up at heaven searching for God. It’s only been like, ten minutes since he was trapped in here but he feels like he’s _dying_. Lobo’s annoying pen-clicking, Kong’s obnoxious rap beats, Bones’s anxiety-inducing drumming and Alex’s faint snores all mingle into one and Ash thinks this is what pure insanity is. Anarchy at its truest form.

It was one thing to waste his time. But to waste his time just to do absolutely _nothing_?

Ash kicks the desk back and stands up, slamming his hands there on the wooden surface to get everyone’s undivided attention. The room goes silent.

“You fucking wannabes! ‘Newspaper club’ my ass! Looks like the one-man Lobo show t’me!” he spits, glaring at every single person in the room. “Punishment? Reform? God, don’t sugarcoat it! This is cruel and unusual _torture_! I can see why you narbos only have three members— You’re all too incompetent to shit out even _one_ column! It’s embarrassing!” seethes Ash, red-hot and going completely off the edge. Ash counts by twos in his head to calm himself down and steady his pounding heart, trying not to let their stifled smirks get under his skin.

“And that’s where you come in—” A bit of _emotion_ runs through Lobo’s face as he finally acknowledges Ash’s presence

“I was _forced_ in here by The Three Stooges.”

“Rude,” mutters Bones.

“Look, Ash. Not sure if you heard, but broadcasting club’s way more popular than us. People would rather watch their news instead of read it, so we put something out at the end of every month instead of every week. Y’know, all the important stuff that has happened and whatnot. Prof’s reading through February’s wrap-up right now, so of course we aren’t doin’ much.” Alex yawns and lays his head on the desk. “For now, just _chill_ —”

“Chill? _Chill?_ Look, I’ve got money out in the open and girls think I’m some kind of _psychopath_ for going in on some upperclassman all gun’s blazing. That, and my goddamn essay—” Lobo raises a brow and Ash shuts his trap real quick before he can expose himself. “I’m out of a job and I’m losin’ my mind breathing the same air as you guys.”

“Newspaper’s yer new job!” suggests Bones, lighting up like a bulb.

Ash clicks his tongue. “Not much of a job if I’m not getting paid.”

“It’s either this or something way worse.” Lobo reiterates. Almost sounds like a threat.

“Yeah? Can it get worse than this?” Everyone looks at each other and nod in unison, like they’ve been there, done that.

“Professor Lobo said you liked writing and that you’re pretty good at it. What’s so bad about doing that for just one issue?” raises Kong.

“Keyword: _Liked._ As in the past tense. I leave that stuff to the dogs and Griff. And anyways, this school’s got nothing goin’ for it. Writing for this shitshow is a lost cause.” Ash settles back in his seat and rubs his temples, deteriorating from the lack of brain cells in the classroom.

“Not necessarily true,” says Lobo behind a small stack of papers. “Spring sports are just about to kick off, my friend!”

“You’re kidding. Our baseball, lacrosse, and volleyball teams suck absolute ass. You guys are just gonna hurt some poor jock’s ego by writing it all down on paper.” Okay, Ash isn’t completely opposed to that idea. If the newspaper was about knocking some John down a couple pegs, he was all in for it. But he knows Lobo would never let something like that slide. Something about bullying and respect and school spirit and all that jazz.

“Do you live under a rock?” asks Alex. “Yeah, they suck. But there’s a glimmer of hope in track and field, and in you.” How mushy. Gag him with a spoon.

“Are you guys seriously gonna spotlight a bunch of sweaty idiots that play tag all day?” What a joke. There’s no future for this club, that’s for sure. He’ll pull an article out of his ass tomorrow and get this over with.

“No. We’re not. _You_ are. A talented writer and a talented athlete. Fitting, isn’t it?” Lobo wheels his swivel chair down the rows of desk until he’s sitting a foot away from him. “Your case study’s the next Olympic hopeful. Lucky you, Ash. Lucky that I have faith in you to carry such a project! It'll be sure to be read school-wide with your teen angst and hot takes! Makes me all happy just thinkin' about it!”

“I wish you the best,” Alex murmurs under his breath. The hell was that supposed to mean?

“What? Don’t trust your other members to rise to the occasion?” asks Ash cockily. If it’s a challenge, then, well, _maybe_ he’ll put an ounce of effort into this.

“You’re more fit for the job. You’ll know what we mean when you meet him,” explains Kong coolly. What’s up with the mysterious tone everyone’s yappin’ with about this dude? What was he? Some steroid-pumped, subhuman being?

“Looks like you've all seen a ghost. Who even _is_ this idiot?”

“Fly Boy himself,” whispers Bones. “Eiji Okumura.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels like I flubbed the end of this chapter but I really wanna get into the meat of this fic which is Ash and Eiji's interactions. HHHHHHHHH
> 
> Totally headcanon Ash reading romance novels for leisure, whether that being to make fun of it or actually fantasizing about some picturesque relationship. =) Thank you for reading, and see you in the next installment.


	3. a curious lynx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instinct leads Ash to Fly Boy. (And what's up with his taste in music?)

He had yet to meet one person in this goddamned institution who _isn’t_ an asshole. You know, someone who isn’t older than him. With actual _common courtesy._

Lobo’s Three Musketeers hadn’t even bothered to give him the rundown on what to do, what to ask, what to _write_. Just let him go to wander off, actually _trusting_ that he’d do his job. 

Idiots. Complete idiots. That was a mistake, because _no,_ he was not going to spend his afternoon watching Bird Brain (or whatever his name is) play around with a pole for hours on end. That's just _awkward._ And weird. Definitely weird.

God. The mere thought of some hulking Varsity Jacket doing man-gymnastics like that made inchworms crawl under his skin. Might see something that would burn his mind and scar him forever, like an accidental glimpse of the guy’s nutsack poking out of loose tidy-whities as he jumps like ten feet in the air. Would definitely be the gross kind of balls; unshaven and musty as fuck with a layer of smegma. That kind of grody nightmare’s expected of some uncivilized, primitive buffoon with no notion of hygiene. They live and breathe miasmas. Shag like dogs in heat. Mask their stink with mace and heightened pride and the baseless harassment of others.

There was no way in _Hell_ he’d be caught dead being near one of those cavemen.

Ash squints his eyes as he stands on a slope overlooking the track. He makes binoculars out of his hands, curious as to why no one was there. 

_Walk away, Ash. You are not going to do this. Go back to your room. Leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone—_

Ash doesn't leave it alone.

Why did newspaper tell him to come down here if no one’s even there to begin with? To make him look dumb? Was there even an Olympic hopeful to begin in this shithole, or was that all a lie?

Ash laughs to himself. _Of course it is_. With someone as dorky as Griffin as their most famous alumni, there was just no possible way someone of that caliber would waste their time here in this dump. He doesn't know what kind of shit the club’s smoking to collectively conjure up this imaginary pole-vaulting Hercules, but this is just _cold_ even for Lobo. But even so… 

Call it a hunch or writer’s intuition. Something was there waiting for him. It was just a gut feeling pulling him down this slope, making him trek and stumble over clumps of grass and pestilent pebbles. He eats dirt on his way, rolls down that hill like a goddamned bowling ball with the kinetic energy of infinity.

“Fucking _rock_ ,” Ash mutters to himself as he recuperates from his clumsiness, fisting blades of grass in hands and scrutinizing the new soil and fresh grass-juice stains on denim. He mourns his outfit for a moment before carefully getting up to make sure no one of status was there to witness his (literal) downfall. He dusts the loose dirt off his knees and plucks the leaves out of his hair, trouncing over to the chain link fence encircling around the track field.

What a shitty day, he thinks as he plays with the straps of his backpack. He felt so miserable; way beyond words and comprehension. Penniless. Played. Provoked. _Pissed._ Not only did Lobo practically set him, but he looked lame as all Hell stepping ( _slipping_ ) right into his trap. Yeah. This pair of jeans is past the point of saving.

He doesn’t know why but he thinks of Griff at that moment as he stares at his griminess. They're on the balcony of their old apartment. Ash bores holes at Griff's backside as he faces the city, clipping laundry to a line and watching as white tee shirts waver in the summer wind. And he’d turn around at him with the smallest of smiles and Ash would have to cover his eyes with an arm at the sheer brilliance of _him—_ The perfect _Not-Aslan_ Callenreese boy. The one with high marks and the kindest personality to boot. The one who made it big in the city all on his own.

Griff always liked to ask if he’d like to help with chores back then, almost like he was trying to inject some of his flawlessness into his poor, bastard younger brother with the bad, mean genes. Ash would always scoff and ridicule him; thinking he was above such trivial housewife duties.

But at times like this, he sort of wishes he’d taken him up on his offer. Griff would know how to take a stain out of anything. He’s suddenly reminded of his old baseball uniform folded over his bed back at the apartment, always retaining its pristineness thanks to Griff selling his soul to the Laundry Gods.

Ash sighs as he clutches onto the fencing as he tries to shake off the intrusive memory. He usually equates these memory-attacks to brain-freezes; annoying and a tingly kind of painful. Ash grits his teeth as he surfboards on the tsunami-like waves of his sudden migraine, pressing his forehead to his knuckles to alleviate some of the throbbing there.

“Um.” A tap. “Hello?” Ash doesn’t register the voice at first as he alley-oops over a particularly tall wave of self-loathing. “Hello?” he says louder, nudging his shoulder.

“ _What?_ ” he seethes in an almost-bark, turning his head so goddamn fast that he swears he gets whiplash. He watches the guy cringe at his flare-up, yanking his hand back with a frightened expression. The guy’s staring at him with the biggest brown eyes and it makes Ash feel like some sort of freak show attraction.

Ash takes a deep breath, counts in twos as he regains his composure to try this encounter again. He unlinks himself from the fence, slightly embarrassed by his disheveled state of messy hair and sooty clothes. The embarrassment doesn’t last long, however. Giving this guy the good ol’ once-over, he feels slightly better about himself. It could be worse. At least he wasn't wearing a stupid headband over voluminous black hair, long white socks, and a super short pair of red shorts that cut off a little above his mid-thigh like Astro Boy over here.

“I saw you coming on over while I was stretching and _—_ You tripped. It looked kinda rough, so I rushed over _—_ ” Damn. He talked a mile in a minute and it didn't help at all with his headache.

“ _I’m fine,_ ” Ash says, sounding more cross than he would’ve liked.

“Good to hear. I’m glad!” So upbeat and cheery. _Ugh._ He smiles— Wait. _He smiles and—_ “Well, try-outs aren't until another two weeks, unless you're here just to practice. If that's the case then—”

“I've seen you before.” Ash squints his eyes, trying to match the face with a name. _Bunny teeth._

“You have?” he asks, kicking the tip of his toe against the ground and clasping his hands behind his back like some kid holding his piss in. “I’m really flattered that—”

“Oh yeah. Tolkien from this morning, ‘cept with no glasses,” Ash lightbulbs, leaning his foot against the fence and resting on it. He sighs, sort of relieved to have made a fool of himself to someone of no significance. “Anyway. I’ll cut to the chase. You seen AJ around?”

The guy’s smile falters and morphs into one of pure confusion, scratching at the mole underneath his right eye. “AJ?”

“Bird Brain or whatever?” As coolly as he can, he flips his bangs and runs his fingers through his golden hair as if to assert his dominance in the social hierarchy. “Kinda lookin’ for him. My life sort of depends on it.”

He laughs. “Your _life_?”

“Yup. Don’t wanna waste any of our time explainin’ the sitch, but the dean’s on my ass and this is the only chance I’ve got at returning to any sort of _normalcy._ ”

“Sounds important, this AJ guy,” he hums with a smirk, taking a place right next to Ash and linking his fingers with the wires.

“ _R_ _eal_ important.”

“Well,” he tilts his head as he faces his way, fluff of his hair moving with him. “Don’t know anyone named ‘AJ,’ but I _do_ happen to know an _Eiji_ _Okumura_. Ring any bells?”

“Several, actually.” His head’s goin’ off like an empty cathedral with Quasimodo bangin’ on all the bells like some kind of one-man symphony. Ash’s face goes hot with just how bad he butchered the name he had heard from Bones; calm and mysterious persona dripping at his feet.

“‘Bird Brain’ is definitely a first for me! You’re very funny,” he comments with an airy chuckle.

No. No no no no no no _no._

“So? Is he here? _Ay-jee_?” God, if his suspicions are true—

“Right next to you,” Eiji winks, coming out victorious in this one-sided fight of social class. “Hiya.” He does a two-finger salute, smile stretching wider as Ash’s soul begins to disperse into the atmosphere.

Suddenly, a noose is lookin’ real cute right now.

* * *

Correction: Eiji Okumura is no Varsity Jacket— if anything, Tolkien’s on the other end of the spectrum. Eiji Okumura’s not the beefcake manifested from Ash’s bias toward any dunce in a sports team. Rather, he’s a lean, babyfaced junior with too much pep in his step and even more pep in how he rambles on nonstop about whatever pops into his head.

“Newspaper club, huh? Didn't think it was still around! People are still reading that thing? Oh, well I guess so if they're recruiting new members like you… Um…”

“ _Aslan_. Aslan Callenreese,” Ash says through grit teeth just to spite him, holding on to the last remnants of his sanity. Nobody called him that, but just because Eiji was getting on his bad side, he'd make him address him _formally_.

“Aslan,” Eiji repeats, trying out how his name rolls off the tongue. “Weird! But anyways—”

“Says _you_ of all people,” he mutters, exasperatedly keeping up with his quick steps as they circled back to the front of the field. “Can't we just, I don't know! Climb this fence so I can sit my ass down on the bleachers?”

“We’d squeeze in extra exercise this way!” Suddenly he picks up the pace and Ash swears his legs are about to give out from a couple of yards of brisk walking.

“Unfortunately not everyone is built like you,” Ash says all breathy. (He really needs to start working out again. This is embarrassing.)

“Huh?”

“They say you've got some demigod bod. Some gold medal-worthy kinda physique.” He supposes looks could attest for that as his eyes trail south past his vibrantly colored shorts. His thighs were defined; muscles sectioned off and rigidly separated by harsh shadows. Eiji’s definitely got… _glutes_ to put it lightly. (Ash shuts his mind off before he could wade in dangerous waters.)

“That so? Nothing special, really.” He shrugs. “If you want to see any of that, you should take a good look at the guys on the football or swim team. They're _humongous!_ All I've got are these babies!” Eiji gives his legs a nice pat. Ash’s eyes flit there again for a second, _and only a second,_ so as to not dig himself into a hole he wouldn't be able to get himself out of. “They're my pride and joy.”

“They're _legs_ ,” deadpans Ash.

“To _you_ they might be. But to me,” Eiji stops in his tracks. He turns his head a fraction back towards Ash and a fuzzy ring of sunlight softly outlines his profile, hitting him just right. The tips of his hair are aflame like tufts of a phoenix and his skin warm as caramel, like he's taken on a new form. Almost makes Ash do a double take. “They're my _wings_.”

Strangely poetic. Oddly insightful. His hands itch for the pen and pocketbook in his bag, but he isn't sure if Eiji’s worthy of being inked on paper just yet. If he's even _ready_ to write like that again. 

Ash stalks behind him silently, listening to the scrape of his sneakers. If there's one thing Eiji Okumura had accomplished in this short time, it was pumping life back into his morose body. Is that a good or a bad thing? That's up for interpretation. But if anything’s certain, that alone wasn't enough material for Ash to complete a column that'd ensure his freedom. For now, Ash decides to stick around until his curiosity burns out.

* * *

Man-gymnastics wasn’t quite off the mark. Coupled with Wham!’s _[If You Were There](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMRoM3xCV28) _ blaring on a ghetto blaster next to him on the bench, he was _positive_ that Lobo had curated this whole ‘writer-athlete’ deal by giving him a glimpse of what’s to come in the life after this, down there with Satan and all his red-devil minions. He probably hired some nerd to act out the part of an overly spry track kid. Made him play all of the songs he just _knew_ Ash would despise. Probably a tin-foil hat train of thought, but _damn_ , he swears the world’s out to get him.

Ash sucks the rest of his Hi-C juicebox, squeezing the death out of it as if it’d miraculously produce more liquid sugar for him to wean off of as he disinterestedly watches Eiji touch his toes over and over again. Next time, he’ll remember to pack his novels to kill the boredom. (If there is a next time.)

The sun’s real hot now, a fiery ball of orange magma frying his body. It’s making him more irritable, more impatient as he awaits for something, _anything_ to happen.

“What’s the deal, Bird Boy? Aren’t you a pole-vaulter?” taunts Ash. “Can’t write much if you’re wiggling your ass in front of my face instead of jumpin’ over bars.”

Eiji jolts at his words, covering his butt reflexively and facing in his direction with the reddest face. “Haven’t you heard of _stretching_?” he huffs. “And I am _not_ ‘wiggling my butt’ in front of your face! You're not even _close_ to me!”

“ _Stretch-bletch._ Whatever. Was sort of expecting some action from this so-called ‘Olympic-qualifier,’” Ash sighs, pushing the dirt out from under his nails. “You’re letting me down here, pal. I’m bored outta my mind.”

“What? Where’d you even hear that I’m— Ugh. Nevermind.” Ash smirks, successfully ruffling his feathers. “It’s to loosen the muscles. Get the blood flowing.” 

_“Right._ ”

Eiji has a cow and clasps his hands onto his hips, lifting his chin up haughtily.

“I’d like to see _you_ vault all locked up as a robot. It’s not very fun! You get all cramped and everything aches for _days_ and— Ah! This one time, I didn’t stretch before my turn at a meet—”

Ash plugs his ears with his fingers.

“Less yappin’, more stretchin’ then. A jump would be nice. ‘S why I’m here in the first place.”

Eiji opens his mouth to speak before shutting it. He stomps his way over to Ash in his off-white trainers, fists balled up at his sides and cheeks puffed. He leans down in front of him, neckline of his shirt drooping. It’s human instinct to _look,_ even more of a _male instinct_ to stare at anything pertaining to tits. And so Ash does— not that he wanted to. It’s a natural response. His eyes just _magnetize_ there. He looks down the column of his neck and past his clavicles, glancing at his pecs and abs that hid under the shadow of his shirt. Ash stops himself from whistling as he commends Lobo for finding the perfect actor for this little role.

“I’ll show you a jump, Callenreese,” Eiji tells him lowly, and he absolutely hates how it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.

“Good. Great. About time.”

“ _Several_ , actually.” Eiji winks and back up with his hands behind his back in such a fashion that makes an indescribable amount of _dread_ brim from his body from the bottom, up. “You're welcome to join me.”

“I’ll leave that to the pros, thanks,” he says, slouching back into the bench.

“You sure? Looks like you need it, considering you looked like a kid with asthma doing the mile on our way here. Could help build your stamina.”

“What’re you insinuating? That I’m _unhealthy_?” Ash narrows his eyes, hoping to strike some fear into him. (What the fuck? It makes Eiji look _giddier._ )

“Just an honest observation,” he tells him innocently, turning on his heel. “I don’t wanna keep you here longer than needed. Make yourself useful and help me count, okay?”

“Don’t know how to jump. Don’t know how to count. How are you in college?” Ash murmurs to himself. Exasperatedly, he shoos him off and buries his face into his palm. “Whatever, man. Do your thing.”

Eiji nods. “‘Ready Freddy?” 

“Where’s your pole-thingy?”

“In a sec. I told you I was going to jump.”

“Yeah, what I meant by jump was,” Eiji proceeds to criss-cross his limbs in a series of _jumping_ jacks, “ _not that._ You’re a real wise guy, aren’tcha?”

“Are you counting for me?” he asks between breaths.

Oh, Ash _counts_ alright. Counts in twos all the way up to ten in his head to suppress the outburst brewing from the pit of his belly. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Of course. I’m always serious.”

“Thought you were gonna do something spectacular, like fling yourself from a rod over those beams,” he points to the pole vault pit behind Eiji, “and crash land onto some mats. If Lobo put you up to this, you can tell me.”

“Just respecting,” he pants, “the process. I’m readying my body for optimal performance. I wanna look cool in front of my new friend after all.” Is he referring to him?

Weirdly enough, Ash’s whole demeanor softens at the term. He can’t be mad, even if he wanted to. He’s got good intentions, and Ash has no right to squash it under the heel of his foot. He’ll stay for today. Put up with _Careless Whisper._ ‘Respect the process’ as he so kindly put it— you know, common courtesy and whatever. If nothing happens, well, he at least has the choice to turn around and never come back.

“I trust you, so put on a good show.”

“Then I can trust you too to put a good word out about me in the paper?” 

“Can’t promise you anything, but with a bit of _motivation,_ I can whip a bit of fiction up for some cash. Say you soared over fifteen feet when you've actually jumped ten,” Ash drones, slumping back with a smirk. (It wouldn't hurt to at least _try_ to siphon some dough while he's here, right?)

“Fiction? I wanted you to make me sound awesome. Like, ‘he walks with such swagger, such grace! He radiates a heavenly glow’ or something like that. Butter me up a little!” explains Eiji, stopping for a break. He places his hands on his knees and leans down, giving Ash a full-frontal of the sweat running down his neck. Ash flinches and looks away, feeling indecent for staring. “Just so you know, my pole-vaulting is very _non-fiction_ , Aslan! I can very well soar over fifteen feet! You’ll see! I’ll blow your mind, like _KABOOM_!” He reenacts an explosion next to his head with his tongue sizzling to embellish the scene.

Ash sighs, struggling to find words. He’s beginning to understand why the club bid him good luck. Sort of.

* * *

Ash is from being an artist, but with how slow Eiji was taking things by doing workout after workout, he'd become Picasso himself with a black gel pen and his leather-bound pocketbook in just an hour; doodling pictures of Lobo with a beer belly and Sing with a gargantuan head and microscopic body (he wasn’t going for realism, but _dang_ was it close to the real thing). Right now, he’s cross-hatching a scribbly portrait of Eiji as he chases after afterimages of himself around the track, like exhaustion is a foreign concept and energy is bountiful. It was a thing of wonders, really. Something he couldn't pry his eyes off. He makes a game out of it actually— predicts he’ll collapse at the fifteenth loop and die right there on the spot.

(Forget that whole dying bit. Ash would have no alibi as to why he was near his dead body, and he knows for a _fact_ that no one would take his side.)

“Aslan!” he hears him call out as he makes another round, waving at him with just as much fervor as the last dozen laps. Is he totally showing off about how much of a fucking _mutant_ he is? Like, Ash _gets it;_ he actually _is_ the athletic superstar everyone makes him out to be.

He isn’t showing any signs of stopping any time soon, so Ash turns to a crisp page and writes whatever crosses through his mind to pass the time.

> **March 4, 1987**
> 
> _Perfect day to lay down in bed and count the mold stains on the ceiling yet here I am, dropped on foreign soil with my ass burning on the metal benches. It sorta feels like a fever dream, hearing the scratch of a pencil way past school hours and watching some stiff follow his own footprints around the turf. Trench warfare if you ask me. Me, all muddied and exhausted, against a foreign power all ‘roided up by some spooky, underground laboratory solution in Siberia. And I’m losing this war, evidently, because I’m writing on you now._
> 
> _Anyway._
> 
> _Hi. Hallo. Hola. Bonjour._
> 
> _My dear notebook, you’re inanimate and incapable of emotion, but I figure if you were actually human, you’d probably be surprised to feel the nib of my pen caressing you all hot and sexy like the good ol’ days. But I’ll be honest. I didn’t want this. I don’t want you. I’m older now and you have no other purpose than to help me remember things. You were kind to me back then, but I can do things on my own. Know how to talk to people. Get what I want, you feel me? I’ve grown out of diary-writing and talking about crushes with huge jugs ~~and Jim and Jennifer~~ , but the time I spent with you was invaluable. I mean, of course it was. Griff sent you to me throughout the years, and I’m here because of it. Not really a thanks, but an approach to an amicable break-up. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’ll move on? _
> 
> _Kind of a contradiction, isn’t it? Feeling you up while simultaneously degrading you? (It’s the romance novels I’ve been reading, I guess. They tend to do that a lot. I suppose tons of people get off on that fire and ice sensation. I’m not that into it.) Perfect reason for that._
> 
> _Back to the whole WWI analogy. I’ve been backed into a corner and it landed me here in enemy territory. Rectangle-jaw territory. How did I get here? Long story. A whistleblower. A Russian operative. Max Lobo. And now, ~~Ayg~~ Ayji ~~Ock Ocku~~ Ockamura. I hate being redundant so I’ll leave it at that. Basically, I’m watching some bigwig athlete at school run track until he depletes his oxygen tank, and I’m supposed to pull a writeup out of my ass to get myself out of the gutter. I didn't wanna look lame just sitting here and ogling some sweaty kid like a freak, so I figured I should make myself look busy by writing whatever. _
> 
> _Wonder what they do back home where he’s from. Guys around here would’ve definitely let up by round ten, but he’s still jammin’. Drugs are cr_

“Heya,” Eiji pants, jogging toward him. Instinctively, Ash shuts his notebook close and tucks it under his thigh, like a kid that’d been caught past midnight under his duvet with a flashlight and comic. 

“Finally tired?” asks Ash, running a hand through his hair to detract attention away from his notebook.

“Thirsty,” he answers, bending down to grab one of many bottles of water in his duffel bag. In one go, he downs the bottle, letting some trail down his chin and down his neck and past his— “You hungry? I’ll treat you.”

“Yeah. I deserve to be taken downtown to a Michelin-rated restaurant.”

“Close. Here’s a granola bar.” He chucks him a _Kudos._

“Gee, _thanks._ ”

“Sorry, are you allergic?” Ash rips the wrapper open and _chomps._ Eiji chuckles and settles down next to him. Like, _right next to him._ Thighs-touching right next to him. “What were you writing?”

“Words.”

Eiji scoffs.

“I’d hope so! Were they about me?” Eiji gets all up close and personal, angling his head toward his with that stupid grin of his; snaggletooth getting caught on the flesh of his lip. “Can I read?”

Even with all of the spicy insults brewin’ in a big, black cauldron, they all stick to the bottom, never to surface.

“I don't know. _Can you?_ ” 

Oh.

Oh God.

Of all the things to snap back with... Ash mentally winces, predicting all of the possible scenarios that could pan out in the next couple of seconds. Cricket noises. An awkward silence. A flame from Eiji that’d make his look like a birthday candle.

Eiji laughs. Not as maniacally as Varishikov, but something light and airy— a sonorous tittering that vibrates in the hollow of Ash’s chest; cradles his heart and squeezes ever so gently until his body jumpstarts and boils over onto the tips of his ears, apples of his cheeks. Ash’s fingers toy with the smooth spine of the notebook as he fixates all of his attention on anything but the stick of sweat from Eiji to his own skin.

“You're silly!” ‘Silly…’ Was he ten? Nevertheless, it tightens the knot at his breast; seals it with a nice, silken red ribbon. “Don’t tell me I have to pay for that too!” he jokes.

“First time buyer so… Thirty.”

“So overpriced!” Eiji pouts. “And who said I was gonna pay? Hmph!”

“That's the price for quality work.”

“Wouldn’t know. You're putting a price tag on the sample. How else would I know that you’re not some imposter or some creep?” Rich, coming from him.

“Blood relations should vouch for that. I’m Griffin Callenreese’s brother,” he tells him, words coming out like acid. It was tattooed to his role; this tie to Griff that validated his entire existence.

Eiji’s face lights up. Assuming that he’d read one of his works, Ash lets out a sigh of relief. “I saw a poster of him in the halls once! Is he a moviestar?”

“Far from it—”

“He’s very handsome. Patrick Swayze handsome! You’re really related to him?”

“Are you _blind?_ Lose your glasses or something, buddy? He’s _Griff._ ” Unremarkable, but admittedly beautiful in his wordscapes and motifs. If Griff was here now, he can just see him blushing like some bumbling idiot. He was never used to those kinds of compliments about him. He wears his work like armor; insecure while also having the security that everyone dreamed of. Ash never really understood that about him. “Moody and unpleasant. Absolute buzzkill of a guy. It’s like he trapped his normal part of his brain inside of his novels and lets the kooky part do all of the talking.”

“He… writes? Like you? Honestly, I’d rather sit down and watch a flick, so I don’t really know much in the realm of books save for Orwell and…” Eiji coughs. “ _Tolkien._ ” Not surprising. What he left out was Lange photobooks and divorced middle-aged women’s recipes.

“Yeah. NYT best seller. Guess that’s changed him. He’s pretentious as all hell and speaks in riddles. Daisies and lavenders are all that comes out of his mouth. That, and analogies from left field, like the world’s full of deeper meaning. Which it’s not.” Ash picks at a scab at his elbow. “I’m nothing like him. I’m… _real_.”

“Real, huh,” echoes Eiji, tapping a finger on his chin. “There’s oatmeal stuck on the side of your mouth and the chocolate’s melted on your fingers. George and Andrew belting it out. Sun on our skin. You’re here, and it’s all very real!”

“Well, aren’t you just a ball of light? Should be in one of [Jane Fonda’s yoga tapes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYgeQe9EAI8) instead playing one-man tag. You’ll definitely get paid more than this gig.” Ash smirks, amused by the way he’s missed the point completely and rambled in his own naive musings.

“I thought I oughta remind you of concrete facts before I make you question your surroundings. You're deeply rooted into realism.” He hops onto his feet, smizing at him.

“Cocky.”

“ _E_ _xperienced_.” Eiji wags a finger.

“Finally gonna fly for me, Tweety?”

“Only if you're ready.”

“Ready Freddy.” He slaps his hand onto his mouth after uttering such a lame saying. In a way, Eiji was right. This was beginning to feel like a never-ending nightmare.

* * *

Complete, radio silence as he watches Eiji grasp at the tape wound around the end of the pole; taking many deep breaths through his mouth to psych himself out. The scuff of his trainors against asphalt tickle his ears as Ash stares in concealed interest.

Ash had only seen pole-vaulting on the static of a CRT TV during the '84 Olympics; saw [Mike Tully’s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=025MgBzdiEw) bright red uniform springing over a bar and the cheers from all around the globe ripping throughout the stadium. Then, it’d be easy to underestimate such a feat; to call it half a race and a simple jump with a stick. But now, angling his head to the heavens, looking at this scrawny Asian boy with the anxiety of breaking all the bones in his body… There’s a thrill that thrums in him, of uneasy optimism for Eiji to prove this epithet bestowed upon him. For him to give him a reason to _stay._

“I’ll laugh if you knock the bar down!” Ash taunts, trying to deceive himself that he wasn’t excited about this.

Eiji grimaces, and even though they’re a little ways apart, he sees his cheery expression clearly; lucent with the glow from his cheek, the sheen of his sweat. He can see the crinkles next to his eyes and the mole on his cheek lifting and the stupid dog tilt of his head whenever he’s amused.

“I’ll laugh with you!” he says, voice dripping with confidence. Somehow, hearing this makes Ash think there won’t be much laughing.

Eiji is a bullet; legs in trained, perpendicular form with each pound of his soles. Ash takes every moment in snapshots and watches the debris from the ground gravitate up with him. He is a rush of cool air, a flamboyant red streak; wind that whiplashes at his face, blows his hair, takes his breath away.

Eiji jumps. Takes off. Ash hears the fiberglass hit the pit and immediately he’s under its spell. The tremors of that magnificent leap quivers all the way over to him, prompting him to stand and feel everything within him shatter. The sideways bend of the makes a lump catch in his throat, full of adrenaline, a pill he swallows readily. His body is water, moves so effortlessly as he twists himself over just barely, _barely,_ over the bar. When he launches feet first, he swears a whirlwind gusts below and twirls him up like a cyclone.

Time itself stops on that still-frame of Eiji carving out Paradise above. An orchestra crescendos in his ears as Eiji successfully makes it over to the other side, violins rejoicing and violas singing hymns of praise. He’s a testament of divine being, there, strewn by shiny threads hung by the chubby seraphs overhead; laying in fluffy, white clouds. Eiji blocks out the sun— _becomes it_ , and Ash thinks he may have witnessed a force of nature. And Eiji knows this, knows exactly _what_ he is as he cries out another victory against him and the earth. 

Ash doesn’t blink— No, _how could he?_ How could he blink and miss his descent? His clipped wings and the feathery bed for him to land on? If he looks away for even a moment, all of the magic, the wonder, would all disappear—

Eiji crashes onto the mats and Ash is snatched away from his fantasy. His jaw hangs as he looks around confusedly, wondering where all that music and glitter had gone. Where the angels had drifted off too. Why they had abandoned Eiji here.

He’s lightheaded, cranium blown up by helium and floating away.

“I made it!” hollers Eiji. An understatement, really. He more than just ‘made it.’ “Not too shabby! Impressed yet?”

Ash snorts, bearing arrogant and feigning disinterest.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He walks over to the landing pit, observing an elated Eiji being consumed by the cushions. 

“I’ll be more than happy to sign your notebook now. Think I’ve made a new fan today,” goads Eiji, lip quirked in an irksome smile as he lays on folded arms behind his head.

“You’re so full of shit,” Ash grumbles, turning his head to hide the blossoming on his face. 

Ash outstretches a hand and the coarseness of Eiji’s palm finds its way into his. It’s a commitment of sorts between an artist and his muse. The magic is very much alive when he helps back on his feet; shocked by the electricity at Eiji's fingertips and the warm emanating from him. Ash closes his eyes and listens to it thump.

* * *

Ash had gone back to his dorm first, as Eiji insisted he’d practice for a while longer. The sky had dusked and it got him wondering if that idiot was still out there, doing who knows what, like if he tried for the world record for laps ran in a day or meters jumped in a span of a few hours.

He sighs and rests his head onto his desk, letting himself get lost in David Bowie’s crooning from his Walkman; enjoying the solitude while he still had it. 

_Out of sight, out of mind._

It was a code Ash lived by. He never went out of his way to do things that didn’t need to be _done_. Life was just easier like that. Less stress. No bullshit. 

Yet here he is, mind _full_ with images of Eiji and grainy vignettes of him jumping in continuous loops set to _[Space Oddity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo)._

So, he writes it all out to get this _stop._ Rips out the page from earlier and writes and writes and writes until he’s cleansed of _him_ and his laugh and his dumb headband and hair and—

> **March 4, 1987**
> 
> _I saw a man fly today. I saw a man taste Heaven and then some. I saw him amongst the birds in the sky, saw them adopting him as if he was one of their own._
> 
> _Ayji ~~Ok~~ ~~Ocku~~ Ockamura. _
> 
> _I find myself reliving that minute moment of our eyes interlocking as he crosses over the axis of the vault pit, that winning grin stretched on his lips as I stood in a stupor of both astonishment and disbelief over his seemingly impossible feat of five or so meters. He must’ve done this many times, I thought to myself. Practiced until he was paralyzed the next morning. I remember the feel of his hand in mine and that was proof enough of his hard work. It was coarse and calloused from hours of gripping the gauzed end of his pole. Holding tight with fear of falling as it sends him to orbit._
> 
> _It contrasted greatly to his soft disposition of snappy pop songs from English heartthrobs and amiability to complete strangers. He speaks in an accent that turns every word into a term of endearment. Laughs in airy carelessness. Has girlish mannerisms of fawning over A-listers and shrieking at curse words and checking out cookbooks at the library._
> 
> _(He’s a strange one, to put it lightly. I’ve never met such a character in my life that had the essence of pure masculinity and a spinster.)_
> 
> _Still, he was brilliant in every sense of the word. Every joint and tendon and muscle in him called out a triumph to mankind. Of evolutionary significance. Of traits passed on for millenniums and millenniums, perfected here in his body— A glorious body that’s mastered flight and inhibition of gravity._
> 
> ~~_I want to know m_ ~~
> 
> ~~_I’m very curious_ ~~
> 
> _I saw him take freedom by the reins and I couldn’t help but want. Want something like that for myself. My own slice of liberation from a world so bare and bones of passion. ~~He wouldn’t mind if I came to see~~ ~~I want to see h~~ For the first time in a while, I feel blood transporting in my veins, coloring me with reason for being. ~~I forgot how nice it could feel~~ It wouldn't hurt to see him again, would it? To learn him? _
> 
> _I walked away thinking I had all I needed to write a column for the newspaper, but it only left me with more questions. Where is ~~Ayj~~ Ayji from? Has he won any competitions? Broke any records? Will he be in next summer's Olympic games? _

Ash rubs his temples.

> _How the Hell do you spell this guy's name?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goshhh it's been a while. so seriously apologize aghhhhh!! tbh i've had a good chunk this written for a while but then /BAM!/ i'm suddenly juggling college and the never-ending list that life has thrown at me!! 
> 
> but alas, eiji!!!!! i didn't want to show too much with him yet, so take this as an introductory chapter. i tried to recreate ash's first impression of eiji vaulting in the anime,,,, hopefully this was somewhat on par with it. :'-)))
> 
> thank you for your patience and for reading this fic!! take care of urselves <333


	4. an envious lynx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eiji actually gives him thirty bucks. Sort of. (And booger eyes?)

The bruises on his body had eventually subsided, bandaids with weights of ten pounds apiece ripped off one by one and tossed away in the bin. Even with his baggage off to some rotting landfill heaping with the worries and fears of yesterday’s problems, his mind can’t help but fixate on the next big thing. A big _thing_ of absolute concern for his health and overall well-being.

You’d expect his days to be tranquil with his business shutting down for the time being. Mornings spent like the walking dead; staggering across campus and cat-napping in the back of classrooms. Afternoons in the library, quickly penning down outlines for assignments long overdue and playing hide-and-seek with pruney, cotton-headed women. Nights spent beating his meat to his poster of Debbie Harry before Sing comes back from robotics and scoffing at far-fetched romances. It was an orderly way of life he had planned to sustain until he finished that damn column— structured and so unlike Ash Lynx, who knew nothing but cash and firewater and temporary bliss.

In reality, it’s anything but.

There’s always a catalyst— a nudge to action. It all started with that fateful leap last week, and then spiraled all out of whack from there. Frequent library visits, checking out anatomy books and poetry and returning romance novels for more cheap jerk-off fuel for particularly rough nights. They would pile at his feet back in his room, creating a fortress around his desk chair. He’d spend hours reading them, learning of the marvelous human body, its muscles— especially there at the thighs. ( _Rectus femoris. Vastus lateralis and medialis. Sartorius…_ ) Suddenly, he found that the pages of his notebook gradually began to fill up with useless tidbits about these muscles with fake-deep analogies to Thanksgiving steamed hams and uncured bacon tagged underneath of them.

The truth was that nothing, no medical term or literary device, could really encapsulate what he saw that day. No matter how hard he tried, how hard he studied, and wrote and wrote and wrote, no purple prose could depict Eiji in that instance— Untouchable and pure, unadulterated _power_.

He’s changing; metamorphosing into the man he swore he would never become. Gripping a pen until the joints in fingers lock up. Squeezing a stress-relief ball to keep himself focused. Sighing as he looked out his window with unknown longing for something he knows his heart desires, but cannot quite put a name on.

The spitting image of Griffin Callenreese.

* * *

> _Four o’clock._
> 
> _The weather was bitter and warm at the same time_ — _spring on the fringes with the coming of March. This year, the crabapple trees decided they’d bloom. Buds dot their long arms and fingers and in time, white blossoms will sprout forth to remind the new season of the winter that preceded it._
> 
> _I never really liked spring. ~~It smells like a girl opening her legs~~ Pollen, for one, and the little boogers that liked to ruin your day with their six-something legs and stingers. (God, I hate those buggy bastards!) It also signaled the start of another obnoxious season of sports. Mint varsity jackets with last names in block letters to make sure no one forgets who they are. Jocks regaining the color on their faces after a months-long coma of academia and idleness. Flyers littering the ground to advertise the spring sports of lacrosse and swim and baseball and track _ : **_Join for an Unforgettable Experience and Lifelong Friendships!_ **
> 
> ~~_(What they leave out is hazing rituals and soggy waffles. To the girls reading this now, ask your local frat idiot what that is if you’re really, seriously curious. I don’t suggest it.)_ ~~
> 
> _My rude awakening to spring came in a tumble, in stained jeans, and a boy in red shorts. A human flyer_ — _bright in his red and whites and his glowing skin caressed by Helios. ~~His legs~~ ~~His thighs were~~ ~~He was f~~_
> 
> _It was third-year track superstar, Eiji Okumura._
> 
> _Okumura’s sport was pole-vault. I spent the afternoon with the supposed Olympic-hopeful and found myself trying to figure out what made him different from everyone else. It’s the kind of sport you see on television and say, “I could do that easy!” I’m sure we all said something similar on the couch three years ago, huddled in front of our TVs as we watched Tully take the silver home. We all must’ve had that fleeting idea that if we trained hard enough and jumped and ran everyday that we’d be able to do what Tully failed to do and bring back gold. I know I had it. For a second, I could really see myself as an Olympian in the static on screen. It was a momentary vision of circling around turf in battered trainers and bulking up enough to have the manpower to launch up into the air._
> 
> _Okumura was reenacting my vision right then and there as he relentlessly pushed himself one lap after another. It made me wonder if he was watching those Olympics three years ago and thinking those same things as me; if he could one day bring gold for the United States, or maybe his native home in Japan. But the stark difference between Okumura and I is that he has a drive not just anyone has_ — _a drive he must have been ~~born~~ blessed with. That drive is a gift. _
> 
> _It is not a vision to him, rather, an imminent future that is very much in his grasp. He must’ve watched the games before Tully, before Kozakiewicz, before Roberts. With every Olympic game, his resolve would embolden and culminate into a realizing dream with every hour he spent out in the sun._
> 
> _It ~~took one jump for me to know the buds were in fluorescence.~~_

He reads his musings over and over again, trying to convince himself that it’s okay, that it doesn’t need to be a masterpiece. He was coerced into doing this. He doesn’t care if it’s bad, he doesn’t care that it sounds so ornate, so pretentious, so— _so_ —

Ash rips the page from his notebook and crumples it into his hand, adding on to the collection of the drafts inside the wastebasket under his desk. 

* * *

Ash is clairvoyant; has gifts of his own that are out of this realm of being. See, there’s this electric current that snaps in his brain, fires these neurons that sound off ballads from his endless collection of music whenever he senses certain someones approaching him— like his life was some sort of feature-length film. He was currently in the arc in which the protagonist is at a crossroads; fighting a solo battle against that fire-breathing dragon in the recesses of his mind.

Right now, his ears ring with the warm finger-pickin’ of an acoustic guitar and Ash can’t help but duck his head and pick up his pace, trying to escape the notes that only seemed to grow louder and louder with every passing second.

“Aslan?” Shoot. And here he his, Mister _[Here Comes the Sun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUNqsfFUwhY) _ himself, embodiment of all things bright and cheery. Does he stay, or does he go? Eiji clasps his hand onto his shoulder and Ash curses under his breath, quickly finding his answer. “Whoa, it feels like _forever_ since I’ve seen you!” _A week and two days, but who’s keeping track?_

It’s an exchange that resembles a reunion between two old chums, a totally polite greeting and whatnot and some small talk, but all Ash can hear is _Where the fuck have you been? Are you avoiding me?_

Well, yes and no. It’s not that he _wanted_ to bolt every time he even caught a glimpse of Eiji. It was just a response he conditioned himself into doing every time his Spidey senses went off.

Eiji, by all means, is not a bad guy. Far from it, actually. He’s a real good dude— _too good._ The type he figured would lend you five bucks in a heartbeat, no questions asked. Would let you win at video games to make yourself feel better. The kind of guy that’d laugh at your jokes no matter how shitty and unfunny they are. Hell, he’d probably stroke your dick if you asked him kindly. _That’s_ the kind of energy Eiji Okumura exuded— the antithesis of all things Aslan Jade Callenresse. (The Anti-Ash, if you will.)

But the thing about nice guys is that they’re almost never truly nice. They’re scheming. They’re _conniving._ Their heads are filled only with themselves and debts you ought to pay back. That five bucks he lent? Yeah, he’s expecting twofold back. He’ll probably destroy you the next time you’re at the arcade, or tell your unfunny jokes at a party and have the whole drunken crowd call him a comedic genius. He jerked your schlong off, so now he wants you to stick a finger or two up his asshole in return.

Wolves in sheeps’ clothing, really. Not the kind of people Ash wants to be associated with. Eiji is no exception, right?

“I’ve been avoiding you,” Ash tells him bluntly, becoming the villain first before Eiji has the chance to.

It totally slipped his mind that Eiji also happened to have four eyes and a real love for photography, apparently, with this huge, clunky Nikon camera slinging around his neck. What a curse: being born a nice guy _and_ a dweeb. ( _Eiji Okumura, you are in my prayers._ ) Hard to believe he’s the same person who practically flew himself into the sun. 

Eiji does that head tilt he only ever sees dogs and toddlers do when the adults are talking a little too fast to comprehend. Then, he laughs.

“You’re really funny!” He claps him on the back, either choosing not to believe him or is completely illiterate in reading between the lines. “I was looking for you because I have something I want to give you.” Eiji holds a bandaged finger up to his face as he digs into the pockets of his high-waisted jeans with the other hand. He murmurs something in a completely different language.

“What?”

“A second, please.” Eiji pulls out a wad of Washingtons. “Can you hold that?”

“This your lunch money?” Ash asks, tempting to pocket it out of spite.

“Not quite,” he says. He sticks his tongue out as he reaches for coins. They burst from his pocket and scatter all over the sidewalk like popcorn kernels in a pan, some rolling into the dead lawn at their ankles and stopping underneath the soles of passing students. Eiji is muttering apologies under his breath as he chases these nickels and dimes, blocking leg traffic and making an absolute _fool_ out of himself. Ash cringes and flips the hood of his hoodie to hide his identity as if _that_ would disassociate him from the klutz that is Eiji Okumura.

“Look man, I’ve got places to be,” seethes Ash through grit teeth. A girl joins his search party for loose change, and then it becomes two girls, and then a guy trying to catch some brownie points with this little harem developing around Eiji and Ash begins to feel like some sort of chaperone to these adult children crowding at his sneakers.

“Thank you so much!” says Eiji graciously, bowing to each of his helpers in ninety-degree angles that Ash _knows_ he must’ve perfected over the course of his twenty and some years. They clink each rusted coin into his cupped hands and go about their day, the guy introducing himself to the two girls and beginning the romantic-comedy arc of his life.

Eiji pushes his dorky glasses up with his shoulders and offers him the pile in his palms.

“You caused such a scene for some chump change enough for wishin’ on a well,” Ash drones and begrudgingly returns his cash. 

“You’re a well in a way; granting so many people’s wishes,” he says, dumping the coins in Ash’s hand instead. “Keep it. This is yours too. Thirty, right?”

“What’s all this?”

“For you!” Eiji beams. 

Oh. _That._

“I’m out of commission, buddy. All because I’ve got my hands tied with newspaper and the Soviet Union. You’ll have to write your essay on your own.” Ash forces the money into Eiji’s hands and walks off. He should’ve known Eiji would follow him like a lost puppy with his tail wagging like a propeller.

“It’s my fault?” asks Eiji. He can hear the crack in his voice and the smile on his face faltering. _No matter what you do,_ **_do not_ ** _engage._ “If that’s the case then…” He stops in his tracks, fluffy tail now between his legs as he stares dejectedly at his worn bills.

**_Do not engage._ **

**_Do not engage._ **

**_Do not engage_ **—

Ash engages.

“No. Not at all. I mean—” Eiji’s eyes are so big and sparkly and _brown_ and it looks like fat tears could plop down his face and chin any second now. Ash swears the black of his pupils begin to swirl out into spirals— one of those hypnosis tricks to get him under his spell, his charm. He’s in deep, unable to snap out of this trance Eiji had beguiled him with. “I was gonna write a column about you regardless. There was no need for all of your theatrics.”

“But you said that—”

“Do you take everything so literally?”

Eiji blushes and plays with the straps hooked to his camera.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

A lump catches in Ash’s throat at the suddenness of the question. He rakes his hand through his hair.

“Been busy.”

“Be honest.”

“I am,” he lies.

Eiji shakes his head.

“You hate it, don’t you? Writing for athletics. Not your style, huh.” Ash averts his gaze and reaffirms Eiji’s words. “You should have said so! I’ve been feeling guilty all this time.” He smiles.

“It’s not like you chained me to the bench and forced me to stay there. I was there because I chose to be,” mutters Ash sheepishly, knowing that wasn’t the complete reason as to why he didn’t want to see Eiji.

“What a relief! I thought I had left a terrible impression on you and scared you off.” The money finds its way back into his hand. “Please, I insist.”

“I told you that—”

“Thank you for your hard work so far. Whenever you have the time, I’d love to read about something you actually care about.” Eiji pats his shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

“Hey!” Ash calls out, but he weaves away into the crowd of students.

He sighs, looking down at the copper and silver piled in his hands. Eiji left him no word count, no deadline, no _choice._ And something he cares about?

It’s alarming how nothing comes to mind.

* * *

One ten. One five. Nine ones. Seven quarters. Three dimes. Nine nickels. Eighteen pennies— All neatly stacked atop his desk.

He recounts them just in case and checks his pockets as if he’d magically conjure up the money to sum up to the thirty they agreed on.

He’s missing three bucks and thirty-two cents.

“I see you’re getting your wealth back, slowly but surely.” Sing closes the door behind him and crashes onto his bed.

“It’s not from the punk you told me about, so your fifty-five—”

“ _Seven_.”

“—Seven is still on hold.”

“No hurry. You’ll be seeing _this_ adorable face for the next three years anyways.” Sing turns to his side and faces Ash, waggling his bushy brows. “I never forget, Ash.”

“Clearly. Your head is so goddamned big and heavy that it’s stunting your height.”

“You’re extra grumpy today. Yeesh.” He rolls on his stomach and kicks his legs like some virginate loser reading the latest issue of _Teen Beat_. “Still workin’ on that journal thing, huh?”

“How’d you figure that one out?” Ash drones sarcastically.

“Oh, well, you know. I’m right there with ya considering you’ve pulled an all-nighter every night for the past _week_.” Sing points to the dark bags under his eyes. “I can’t sleep with the lights on. You _know_ this!”

“Sorry,” Ash says. “I’ve been in a block.”

“Bullshit. I’ve seen you shit papers out like a printer.”

“This is different.”

"How can this be any different? It's not like you have to do actual research.” Ash glares at him. “I take it back.”

“Papers are _easy_ because you have information set in stone. They can be melded and galvanized and shaped into any form you want. Now this, _this,"_ he gestures to the books and litter surrounding him, “you’ve got absolutely _nothing._ A reference, sure, but then you have to interpret and put your own spin on it. Dress it up with words from thin air. Make your observations palpable and—”

Sing groans.

“I didn’t ask for a sermon, man.”

“I’m saying that it’s difficult and I have no idea why. This isn’t meant to be creative and yet I’m…” Ash pauses. “I’m trying so damned _hard_ for no reason. I could’ve easily come up with some make-believe story and went on with my life and yet I’m still here mulling and losing my mind and sleep over him. It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re right. It _is_ ridiculous,” Sing says. “I mean, who is this ‘him,’ anyways?”

“Some geed in track.” Ash lifts his head and smirks. “ _Total_ dork. Dorkier than you. Was a feat I thought would be impossible to overcome.”

“You’re an ass,” laughs Sing. “I’d like to know the fellow who’d stripped me from that title.”

“Eiji Okumura,” Ash says. Sing thinks for a minute, searching for a way to continue their conversation. He’s trying really hard too, his brows knitted tightly as he dawdles. He gives up eventually.

“Yeah. Never heard of him. I’d say something funny to that but there’s nothing goin’ on in my noggin.” He tucks his hands behind his head and sinks into the cushion of his mattress. “Still, I wish you luck with… Whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Are you serious?” sputters Ash.

“What?”

“You’ve never heard of him?”

“ _Sor-ry._ Am I supposed to? Jesus, you look so _offended._ ” 

“What the fuck?”

Ash goes through the facts. Lobo and Alex’s crew seems to know that Eiji exists. Even gave him the nickname ‘Fly Boy.’ He’d seen the papers from last year and Eiji’s freshman year; shattering old records, placing in brackets and making it to regionals, sectionals, nationals.

Something wasn’t adding up. All in all, Ash was totally _joking_ about Eiji being a dweeb but this? It just wasn’t _normal._ Shouldn’t people know him? Be all over him? Shouldn’t there be announcements gushing over him? Women throwing themselves at his feet?

Eiji Okumura is a wonder. Virtuoso in flight. He’s heartwarmingly scatterbrained and uncannily nice and soft-spoken and Ash can’t help but feel like he deserves more than _this._ Deserves to be more than a footnote in the school’s history. Deserves his name on one of those stupid varsity jackets in blocky white font to flaunt wherever he goes. Deserves to go to frat parties to get dumb drunk and make out with girls. He deserves to be that stereotypical jock that basks in popularity and praise and attention because… _Because…_

“I’ve gotta go,” Ash says abruptly, taking one last glance at the money on his desk before grabbing his backpack from his bed and slinging it over his arm. “I’ve gotta go.”

* * *

He runs.

Ash doesn’t know why he’s rushing, why he’s chucking his bag over the fence and climbing over it like his life depended on it. Eiji will be there, no doubt about it. Sundown isn’t for another couple of hours. 

Completely out of breath, he hunches over and places his hands on his knobby knees, watching his sweat slide down the slope of his nose and dropping down onto the pavement, coloring it a darker hue of gray. 

God. How does Eiji do it? His sprint wasn’t even that far and he already felt his rusted joints locking up and the dull pain in his muscles which he _knows_ he’ll feel later tonight in bed.

Finding it a bit embarrassing to show up disheveled and sticky, he rests for a minute and tucks and untucks his bangs behind his ear as if it’d somehow dry the sweat on his face and hair. He inspects a tuft of it, noting that this is the longest it's ever been. Maybe it’s time to get it snipped.

Griff would always be the one to shave his hair. Ash could still hear the whirring of the razor. He could still feel the cool silver blade scraping against his scalp and along the nape of his neck, the strands of hair fluttering down and tickling his skin like fairy dust. It was always the same buzzcut— _helmet hair_ , as Griff liked to put it. Short and clean and spiky, yet soft to the touch. The signature style of any baseball pro. 

Ash shakes his head at the intrusivity. His hair will never be shorn like that. There will never be a need to.

He sighs and digs around the muddled pool of his recollections for the reason why he’s here in the first place. Ash scans the area for the bounce of black hair or red outlining the oval footpath. His mouth opens to call out for him, but he decides against it and looks for him himself.

His drags his feet against the rubbered track and oh—! There he is, outstretched like a starfish left to dry out in the sun on the seventh lane. Ash’s feet pick up; a brisk walk, a jog, a dash.

Eiji has his hands behind his head as he watches an airplane emerge from the clouds, oblivious to Ash’s presence looming behind him. He’s in his usual attire, save for the obnoxious headband that made his hair shroom out. Ash can’t help but be drawn to the pain relief patches that stuck to his hamstrings and calves. His nose scrunches at the menthol scent carried by the wind.

He should say something. A ‘hi’ or ‘hey’ would be good. No. Maybe ‘What’s up?’ to keep it casual. A ‘I haven’t forgotten about you. I’m just an awkward human being. Let’s pick up where we left off.’

“Hiya, Aslan.” Ash flinches at his name and darts his head around him, thinking he’d imagined the sound of Eiji’s voice. If only it _were_ his imagination. Eiji had jumped the gun and practically _made_ him come up with some socially acceptable way of communication. He stutters as he flips through a little pamphlet in his mind for greetings. Synonyms for ‘hello.’ A funny anecdote— one of those Roommate From Hell stories starring Sing Soo-Ling and his piggish snoring and unfurtive masturbatory habits whenever he thinks Ash is asleep. Shit, he was ready to talk about the fucking _weather_ at this point.

Long time, no see, Eiji. I like how the breeze blows your hair around this time of year. It’s not too cold, but enough to nip at the ears like some sultry bite from a chick you really like; her Chanel turning you hot pink. I think it’s sexy how it doesn’t get too dark too soon. How the sun stays out longer to play. I like how I can see everything. How I can see you. You know, I really did like that jump of yours. Did you jump while I was avoiding you? Have you been waiting for me every day? Waiting for anyone to show up to impress? Hey, are you mad at me? Disappointed? I didn’t mean to ditch you. Really. If it makes you feel better, you’ve been on my mind this entire time. You’ve been on paper, like I said you would be. I’m here now. I’m—

"What the hell are you doing?" Ash's fight-or-flight mechanisms switch on. He sees his heart running laps around the track. It’s suddenly hard to breathe and it feels like something’s obstructing his air passage. He tells himself it's probably pollen or the sun beating down on him. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Just drink some water and cough it out.

"Photosynthesizing."

But Ash is smart. He knows better. And with that stupid response that manifested all of the idiotic energy on campus, he knows this sweaty, innocuous boy laying down by the turf with his farmer's tan on full display is the root of all his suffering. Damn him to Hell.

“An obtuse way to say you’re lazin’ around,” Ash says before he could stop himself. It just comes out of him, this bile of all the pretty words he’s accumulated throughout his life but can never string into flowing sentences. He thinks of an artist’s palette and all of the vibrant reds and blues and yellows dotting the wood. Even with the many combinations and ratios you could come up with, in the end he always decides to use his paint knife to mix them all together into an ugly, brown mess.

“Work, play, and rest. You need to have balance. I worked and played plenty, so now I’m resting.” Eiji pats the spot beside him. “You’ve been playing for too long. Sit.”

It’d be no use to scoff and pout since Eiji wasn’t even looking at him, so he just does as he’s told and eases up; taking off his backpack and sitting next to him.

“I’ve been working too, you know. Even if it doesn’t seem like it.” He hugs his knees and perches his chin atop them.

“I see.” Eij tilts his head his way and smiles. Ash can see all of his pores, his beauty marks dotting under his lashes and the crinkles next to his eyes as he grins. Ash burrows his face in his folded arms to hide his blush.

“I’m not done with you,” Ash murmurs and immediately regrets his choice of words. He sinks further into his arms, sheltering his fiery hot face from coming to surface. “I mean, you can’t get rid of me yet.”

“Get rid of you?” Eiji asks. His voice is so _airy._ Gentle. It makes the hairs on his neck stand. “Who said I was trying to get rid of you?”

“It felt a lot like you were paying me to go away or whatever and write something else. I mean, that’s all anyone ever pays me to do so... I know I haven’t been coming but believe when I say that I’m taking this serious—”

“I believe you.” 

Ash pokes his head out and looks at him from the corner of his eyes, flustered. He hates how that tiny phrase thrilled him and made him forget about the aches all over his body and how it wiped his palette completely clean. 

“You trust too easily. It’s not a very good trait. What if I take your money and leave you in your lonesome again?”

“You showed up today.”

“That I did.”

“That’s reason enough.” Eiji closes his eyes and basks in sunbeams. “Even if you didn’t come today, or the day after, I wouldn’t have minded even though I do enjoy having company. It’s difficult working with me, so I’m told, so I thought you ought to be compensated beforehand.”

“You’re not working right now. You’re resting and I’m finding it pretty easy. Keep it up and I won’t miss a beat ever again.”

Eiji laughs.

“You have no idea, do you?” he whispers under his breath, as though Ash wouldn’t be able to hear.

“Hm?”

“It’s nothing.” Eiji sits up. “You happened to catch me in a very vulnerable state. I’m very tender.”

“You’re _tender,_ ” mocks Ash.

“Hurting all over!” Eiji explains, pointing to the Salonpas scattered over his legs. “Sorry I cannot give you a good show today, Aslan. The body must heal before it can become strong again!”

“You’re like a walking quote book. So wise.” Ash puts the heels of his palms behind him and leans back, finally wafting away the tension that was suffocating him. He stretches his long legs out. “Though if you heal for a long time, the body can also break down. Speaking from experience.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Well, I suppose ‘heal’ isn’t the right word. _Inactive_ is more like it. Haven’t used my legs in a hot minute.” He smacks his thighs. “They’re useless.”

“But you walked all the way here! They still have some use!”

“I _ran_ and it may have been the worst five minutes in recent memory. These boys still feel like jelly,” Ash says. “You told me I looked like I needed exercise and I regret to inform you that you may be right.”

“More exercise never hurts anyone.”

“Psh. Look at you. Can you really preach that when you’re all patched up and lolling?” he jokes. “No, but for real. I used to run everyday. Sunrise and sundown. Six-minute miles. It made walking seem like floating on clouds. ”

“You could really be in track with that kind of time, Aslan!”

“I was in baseball, actually.”

“Eh? Who would have thought?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?” Eiji actually ponders the question and it sort of offends Ash. “Well, I _was_ in baseball and I was very good at it. Coach worked us hard. Different workouts every day. Made us buzz our heads. Temper tantrums disguised as stern talking-tos.”

Eiji is following his every word, watching his lips move with each syllable with furrowed brows as if he really was trying hard to conjure up this image of him back in high school. Ash can tell Eiji was imagining himself, but as a blond American boy with cropped hair and pale eyes.

“I would have loved to see you like that. Sounds like you’ve done a complete one-eighty. Now, you’re so…So... ” He presses a finger to his cheek, looking for the right descriptor. Ash can pinpoint the exact moment the lightbulb goes off. His face lights up and he cheeses so hard that he reveals the dimples on his chin. “Rock and roll.”

“Thanks, I guess.” His lips tremble as he plucks the little pebbles embedded in his palms. _Rock and roll..._ That’s new. He wonders what kind of rock and roll Eiji is thinking of. Glam like Bowie? Classic like Zeppelin? Prog like Pink Floyd, or lame like Bon Jovi? Is this even a compliment, a genre of music, or is this an insult— some subliminal way of telling him that he’s uncaring and cold and intimidating and conceited?

It’s quiet now. The sky, his limbs, his heart is on fire. They scorch and corrupt his lungs with each crawling second and he’s getting choked up all over again. Ash ruminates on words that hold imaginary weight as Eiji plucks the patches on his skin, on and off, until they lose their adhesive back. They wait for the other to make the first move and _talk_ to rip them from their fog of insecurity.

The rule of conversation would have it that Eiji be the one to break the silence, but Ash could tell he was waiting for him to do it with every stolen glance thrown his way at three-minute intervals.

It’s odd. Ash has him right where he wants him and Eiji is willing, able, and yet it’s _now_ that his tongue decides to tie itself into triple knots. If only he could articulate all the things he wanted to say to him. The things he could think about so effortlessly when he’s alone.

“Hey Ash?” Eiji finally asks, breaking first. Then, a pregnant pause and a sigh. “Forget it.”

“What is it?”

“I was going to ask you something, but it might be personal.”

“Shoot.” Could he have sounded more desperate for human interaction?

“I don’t know you very well so I don’t know what kind of answer I’ll get.”

“I’ve dug through public files for you and saw your yearbook pictures. It _can’t_ get more personal than that.”

“My own stalker,” Eiji gasps, bringing a hand to his mouth to contain his excitement.

Ash groans. “Oh, shut up. It was surprisingly hard to get the dirt on you. I had to expend actual _energy_ just to learn how to spell your name.”

“Being a junior reporter must be terrible.”

“Terrible when you’ve got close to nada for reference,” says Ash. “What’s up with that, anyway? I mean, for being a rising bigwig in the sports world, I was expecting smooth sailing with endless articles and people fawning over you.”

“That’s your job to find out, isn’t it?” Eiji winks.

“Don’t make this harder for me.”

“You’ll see soon enough. We’ve got a week alone together before tryouts.”

“Why make me wait around for a week when you can tell me now?”

“I need to keep my publicist on his toes!” _Publicist_? Ash snorts. “You’re interested now and think I’m mysterious. That’s incentive to keep visiting me and to _write_!” Eiji exclaims in his usual rash alacrity. He crosses his legs and drums his hands on his hams to wake them up, Ash presumes.

“Egotist.”

“ _Strategist._ This is for your own benefit!”

“You’ve locked me up in my room. Left me awake at night with my mind racing. Struggling to see the benefit in that.”

“Ah, really? Goodness. My heart jumped a little.” Eiji clutches his chest and squeezes, long lashes fluttering on his golden skin and fanning glitter his way. He sneezes. “Bless you.”

Ash quickly wipes his nose with his sleeve before Eiji can see the snot leaking out of his nostrils.

“You’re so weird.”

“You’re weirder.”

Ash smirks, leaning in toward him. Eiji closes up like a flower shrinking back into its calyx, hand still clutching onto his tank top. 

“How so?”

“You just _are_ ,” huffs Eiji, shoving him back by the shoulder. “You’ve got booger eyes.”

“‘Booger eyes.’” Ash suppresses the inclination to laugh.

“They look a lot like—”

“I get that much. I’ve never heard of that one before.” Ash chuckles. “It caught me off guard.”

“You’re the first person I've seen with that color,” he explains. “I always thought people like you were worlds away. I didn't think green eyes actually existed.”

“You're making me sound like an alien. Like ET.” He blows a strand of hair out of his face.

“The green is the martian hiding under your skin,” adds Eiji with a grin. Ash can’t help the smile sprouting on his own face.

“So what if I am? What if I was sent here on a mission from Mars to snoop on you? Wouldn't that be something?”

“What's there to snoop on? I'm just,” Eiji gestures to his body and makes a trumpetous noise with his lips, “ _me_. You won’t get much intel.”

“I’d get plenty. I mean, for one, you’re a prime example of human feat.”

“What’s so special about my feet?”

Ash shoots him an incredulous look and playfully scoffs. “The other ‘feat.’”

“Oh.” Eiji cringes and covers his face with his palms, but it doesn’t hide the blush emblazoning the curves of his shoulders and neck. “You were saying?”

“I think you’re pretty amazing,” Ash says, craning his head up to the setting sky to play the memories back in jittery film. “When I was watching you, it was like, even if only for a moment, you controlled gravity. Beautiful white wings sprouted from your back and you just took off with your feathers fluttering down like winter’s first snowfall. It was a real sight. I tried to catch one to remember the moment, but it vanished before I could clench my hand around it. Such a shame, I thought. I have my memories where I could play it back whenever I want, but memories naturally wither with age. Time is a cruel thing.” He traces the chime flying past them with his finger as they return home from their long journey overseas to celebrate the coming of spring. “You’re like those wrens over there. You know how to fly and can go wherever you want. I envy you.”

Ash takes a breath and closes his eyes. He lays back and relishes in the warmth of the ground on his back and the sunlight spilling all over him. Blanketed by these cozy feelings, he imagines what it's like to be airborne and to ride the winds and feel your hair whipping across your face. He wonders where he’d fly to. Ash thinks of Messina, where he’d perch up on the golden statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the harbor. He thinks of Montreux in winter, where he could be alone up in the snowy mountains. Perhaps Tanzania would be a better option. Then, he could morph back into a lynx and live the last of his days on Kilimanjaro. He thinks, frankly, anywhere would be better than here. The thoughts are candy on his tongue inducing him into a sugar coma. He could fall asleep here just _dreaming_ of leaving and never coming back.

Remembering Eiji right beside him, he opens one eye to make sure he's still there. Eiji, jaw hanging and eyes glassy, is staring back at him dazedly.

“I feel as though,” he hears Eiji say in a hushed tone, “this is one of those moments that seem so trivial in the grand-scale of things, yet somehow etches onto your heart.” His voice sounds small, like a candlelight that’d crackle every so often and slowly melt the rime encasing him. “I hope it’s alright that it has already embroidered itself there, Aslan. I’d like to remember what I’m feeling right now; the lump in my throat and the beating of my chest and the burn of my cheeks. I’d like to remember years from now when I’m all alone and knee-deep in the humdrum of life, and feel these feelings all over again. I never want to forget the rosiness of my prime—my [Strawberry Fields Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtUH9z_Oey8). I never want to forget these thoughtful words you’ve uttered to me.”

Eiji lays down with his arms to his side. He’s closer than Ash thought. Their pinkies are almost touching. Ash is fixated on that tiny space separating them.

 _He’s close. He’s so close. He’s_ —

“As long as you give me another chance, Eiji. This time, I’ll catch it. I'll keep it in a pretty wooden box. I’ll keep it in there for safekeeping and I’ll protect it from dust and the outside.”

Eiji smiles contentedly as if Ash had somehow assuaged some of his unspoken fears and anxieties.

“Thank you, Aslan. I’m so glad it’s you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re the one documenting my final time as a pole-vaulter.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took me sooooooo long to write tbh!! i tried to plant a lot of seeds for the future chapters here, so there might be a lot of things that need to be tied and knotted later on ahiernksf. 
> 
> anyway, i'm so relieved i could post it before my spring semester starts. :-)) i hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and i thank you for your patience!


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